


That Which Remains

by pantswarrior



Series: The Cultists' Cycle [22]
Category: Vagrant Story
Genre: Alternate Universe, Illnesses, Injury, M/M, Magic, Masochism, Post-Canon, Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-18
Updated: 2010-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantswarrior/pseuds/pantswarrior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ending AU. What might have happened if one character who did not survive the game's ending did survive after all? He might have decided that another should also survive, whether he wanted to or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm choosing not to use archive warnings in this case because a major factor in this story is the question of whether or not the two of them will survive. To warn or not warn in that way would give away the ending of the story. However, the notes at the end will tell you, if you must know in advance.

"But I want Hardin to come with us..."

Joshua sounded as if he was on the verge of crying again, and Hardin tried not to flinch. It had been difficult enough when the boy had been silent - and when the boy had been merely a boy. Hearing a young voice again made the decision more difficult, as did the knowledge of who he was. He may as well have been a younger brother for Hardin.

"He has other obligations," the inquisitor told the boy yet again, her hand resting lightly on the top of the golden-haired head. "But perhaps we will see him again, someday. Until that time, you must say goodbye."

Hardin nodded, and knelt as Joshua's face crumbled. When the boy ran to him, Hardin held him close - but not too tightly. He was determined not to make this more difficult for either of them.

"I must admit," Merlose murmured, while Joshua was distracted, his face buried in Hardin's shoulder, "I too wish that you would reconsider. He has done you much harm."

The only thing that kept Hardin from stiffening was the boy in his arms; it had been some time since he had been around heartseers other than Sydney, and he'd fallen out of the habit of guarding his thoughts. "...Yet also much good," he murmured in reply, deciding to assume she was referring only to the harm she had witnessed. "I cannot forget this... and I cannot abandon one who showed me mercy when I had lost my way."

"Mercy...?" Her voice was low, almost incredulous, and perhaps she didn't mean for him to hear, for she shook her head. "Hardin. If you have need of us, either of you... how will we know? How shall we find you?"

"If we have need of you," Hardin said, releasing Joshua, taking him by the shoulders - he _was_ crying - "either the gods will guide our steps to one another... or they shall not, and either way it will be what they have decided." His hand rested atop the boy's head, and he did not look at Merlose. "Would that they should allow us to meet again."

She nodded slightly, taking Joshua by the hand. "Indeed," she agreed quietly as she turned to lead him away, to where the Riskbreaker stood waiting for them to finish their parting words. He had little to say to either of the two who would remain. "Fare thee well."

Joshua looked over his shoulder, imploringly. Hardin decided that it was in his best interest to look no longer, and turned to the safehouse, where Sydney remained in darkness, staring blankly at the floor. He also had had little to say, now that he was not going with them.

* * *

They had made use of this cottage before, when hunting the wood beyond the city, and later when the posting of sentries became necessary. There were circles there from ages past, simple to revive as wards to ensure its privacy. Sydney had worked the magicks in Hardin's sight many times. This time, Hardin had expected to work them himself, relinquishing his body for Sydney's use as he had in the past when complicated spells were required. Instead, Sydney had simply instructed the Riskbreaker, for he had not the power to ensorcel or to compel any longer, and the Riskbreaker did.

Hardin had known for some time that he was not to be Sydney's successor, though he was his second. The knowledge had been a relief to him, for the most part, after seeing what Sydney suffered - but seeing a stranger wield the Dark in Sydney's place was enough to make the beginnings of envy spring up. What right did this Riot have to the Dark? All was as the gods willed, Sydney had told him, but that had never been quite enough to set Hardin's mind at ease.

Sydney did not raise his head at the sound of the door opening and closing, nor at Hardin's voice. "Would you not see your brother off?"

"He does not know me as his brother," Sydney replied. "Rather, I frighten him."

"He _could_ know you as his brother," Hardin pointed out, stepping away from the door, closer to the table and chair in the corner where Sydney sat, limp and listless. "I cannot imagine what you are thinking, sending him away at such a time. Soon, you will be the only family he has remaining," he added, forcibly gentling his voice, "if it is not already so."

Sydney shook his head. There within the shadows, skin and hair and white robe seemed the same pale tone, like a painting of a ghost. "Our circumstances are different than yours were," he reminded Hardin. "Joshua is healthy and whole. He will have brothers and sisters aplenty where he is bound. He has no need for me, as I am."

As he was. The words aroused an anger in Hardin, for he knew what Sydney meant. He had fallen far from what he had once been, yes - the Dark had moved from him to Riot, leaving him comparitively weak and helpless, particularly given the injury he'd received from Guildenstern, which had not yet healed completely. The skin was still raw and pink, tender to the touch even after the Riskbreaker had done all the healing he could manage. Hardin's own gut still throbbed, for once he was beyond risk of death he'd bidden Riot to use what resources he had to mend Sydney instead - he was a soldier, after all, scarred often in years past, and he could withstand pain.

Sydney had been dealt mortal wounds many a time, of course, and could withstand pain as well. But there was something else the matter with Sydney, something he could not withstand, and which the Dark was unable to mend.

"He will die if he returns to the Graylands," Merlose had told Hardin quietly two evenings past, approaching him in the woods where he had been checking the snares. Her disquieting words were barely audible beyond the birdsong.

The thought troubled Hardin - a man should be permitted to see his father on his deathbed. "The Blades?"

She shook her head. "The Duke's hand, and his own will."

Hardin's blood ran cold. "Are you now a prophet as well, inquisitor?"

"Nay - it is what I see in his heart." She moved closer, placing a hand on his arm. "I tell you not because I care so much to save his life, as because of what I see in yours. His will is to die together with the Duke, and for you to then continue on with us, to gather those who remain of his followers. I do not believe this is how you would have it."

Indeed - Hardin's heart had shrunk away from the thought of going on without him, of returning to their brethren alone, following one he did not know. The one benefit of this transference of power, he had thought wryly after they had all found each other along the cliffs beyond the channel, was that now Hardin knew with certainty that it had been Sydney who had so enchanted him, and not the Dark. He had little interest in Ashley Riot when the Riskbreaker came stumbling up the staircase from the wine cellar, but instead had eyes for the burden laid upon his shoulders. Even filthy and unkempt, pallid face contorted in agony as he fought to suppress a scream from the pain of flesh and veins knitting themselves together too quickly and too tightly, claws digging into the blood-soaked soil, Hardin wanted nothing more than to take Sydney in his arms and ease it all away.

Even after he'd been lied to.

It was rare and even uncharacteristic of Hardin to make an entirely selfish decision, but he had. Now was when it began - now that they were alone, with no one to witness.

"Are you ready to eat yet?" he inquired, knowing well that Sydney could hear the edge he carefully kept from his voice.

At that, Sydney _did_ look up, warily. "...I am not."

Hardin turned away, going to light the stove against the far wall. "Then I shall prepare enough meat for myself," he stated, "and you shall drink the broth. Even if I must spoon-feed you." He did not turn again, nor call upon the Dark to see Sydney's reaction - it mattered not.

John Hardin had never been immortal, after all. He had survived this long only because he refused to yield.

* * *

Not long after Hardin had fallen asleep, he was awakened by the sound of muffled coughing from outside the window. Sydney was ill again after all. Hardin had expected as much, but he had been hopeful that the broth might do Sydney some good anyhow. Perhaps it had.

As far as he could recall, Sydney had not been eating in the days leading up to the siege of the Bardorba manor, and hardly had he slept. He'd been having little enough of food or sleep in the months previous as well, and Hardin had no doubt that he lived only because the Dark sustained him. A mortal body would not have been able to live on so little.

Hardin considered whether or not to assist Sydney. His inclination was to decide against it, for Sydney could manage on his own. He likely needed to be reminded of that. Besides, it was the first time Hardin had slept in a bed for weeks - the cottage had two, but honor dictated that one should go to the woman and the child. He might have shared the other with Sydney, but with the wound on his back, Sydney was in pain even from the slightest jostling; he and Riot had taken the floor. After hardwood and brick and cobblestones, Hardin was almost shamefully relieved to be lying upon a mattress.

Perhaps more shamefully, it took him little time to change his mind, and he sat up with a wince. His own injuries did not appreciate having to rise from the bed either. The wind was cold through Hardin's nightshirt, as was the water he drew from the pump when it splashed over his hand. He needed only enough to fill Sydney's cup, and then he turned to where Sydney knelt with the back of his hand pressed against his mouth.

It made matters worse, Hardin thought, that the Dark was destructive by nature. If it had not sustained Sydney, surely it would have killed Sydney, steeped in it as he had been. It was only now, when it sustained him no longer, that his body began to truly see the consequences. Even the small amount required for control of his limbs had been too much - Riot had used his skill as a smith to make Sydney different arms, with a different flow of power, and it had helped somewhat. The fingers that accepted the cup of water were not claws as they had been, but blunt and smooth, made from an ordinary gauntlet which still bore the markings of a low-ranking knight of the Crimson Blades.

"It will become easier with time," said Hardin as Sydney drank. It was only that Sydney's body had forgotten how to sustain itself through normal means, surely.

Sydney said nothing in response, but only took a deep breath. Hardin tried again. "Do you need help returning to bed?"

Sydney shook his head so slightly that Hardin could hardly see it. "I will manage," Sydney murmured, though nearly stumbling as he rose to his feet.

Yes, you will, Hardin thought, and did not reach out to steady him, though he did follow along close behind.

* * *

The next morning, Hardin woke late, but he found when he turned over to look to Sydney's bed that Sydney was not awake yet. Good - rest would help him to heal. Hardin was therefore quiet as he left his own bed, and slipped outside to draw water from the pump. There was a small bath, but it was inside; to avoid disturbing Sydney, he would wash outside, unheated.

When he finished, he changed the dressing on his wound as well. It was still seeping trace amounts of blood, and he was sure it would have been fatal if Riot had appeared just a short time later. Hardin's skill lay not in healing, for Sydney had oft told him he was naturally attuned to the Dark. He could have done little for such a wound as Guildenstern had dealt him, or the wound on Sydney's back.

It may have been a mistake, Hardin pondered as he gathered an armful of firewood, for Riot to have expended so much energy in healing Sydney. Given that such energies had already been destroying his body and undoing the damage they had done for so long, it may have been much the same as giving a man newly sober a congratulatory drink. The healing had simply stopped at a point, and the magic could do no more.

Sydney was still not awake when Hardin entered the cottage again, firewood in one arm and a pail of water in the other, to begin some semblance of breakfast. For Sydney, that is - Hardin was content with a bit of bread and jam. Sydney would not be able to take such food yet, and so Hardin lit the stove to cook a thin porridge. The cupboards had been empty when first they'd arrived at the cottage, and Riot had given Merlose one of the unspoiled bottles of vintage wine he'd discovered in the city, instructing her to go after food in a nearby village. Hardin had done his part after her departure, showing Joshua how to set snares for small game, which left the Riskbreaker to spend the time alone with Sydney, learning of the Dark and what it did and what he now was. They all had known it was necessary.

Merlose had brought back a small measure of sugar, for Joshua's sake, and there was still a bit left. Perhaps Sydney shared his brother's tastes, Hardin thought, and stirred it into the porridge.

He'd expected the scent of food to awaken Sydney, whether the aroma was pleasing or revolting to him in his current state. Yet it was late in the morning now, and Sydney had not moved. Still stirring the pot, Hardin looked beyond himself, bending over the bed in the corner.

Sydney's eyes were open, staring into space. Hardin frowned slightly, and let go of the Sight. "Would you prefer to take your breakfast in bed, then?"

"Why do you persist in this, Hardin? This is futile."

"Is it? I have seen you summon wyrms, channel the gods, cause lifeless rocks to rise and obey you. I believe that you can eat breakfast as well."

"It was Sydney Losstarot who did these things. ...As you are now aware, I once was known by another name."

At this, Hardin looked back, for they had not spoken of this. In truth, they had spoken very little since escaping Leá Monde, and not a word about the lies Sydney had told, and why. Hardin had been unable to imagine a way to begin that conversation. "Yes. You are also Tomas Bardorba."

Sydney had rolled over to address Hardin, and he nodded slightly. "...Tomas Bardorba was a helpless, sickly, miserable little boy, and as you know, he succumbed to his weakness over a decade past. Sydney Losstarot was the high priest, the gods' champion, the one chosen to usher in a new age - and now that his destiny has been fulfilled, he also exists no longer."

"I care not what you call yourself," Hardin said firmly. "You still breathe."

"I was not meant to survive this," Sydney murmured. "There is no purpose in prolonging the inevitable."

The fact that he'd simply accepted it made Hardin more furious. "Simply being mortal does not mean you must rush to mortality," he growled. "Why must you be so stubborn?"

Sydney sighed, and lowered his eyes. "Perhaps," he muttered, "the answer lies in the fact that I had just asked you the same question."

Hardin paused. There was a tone in Sydney's voice, for just a moment... a dry, sarcastic edge behind the hopelessness. Suddenly in spite of his frustration, he wanted to laugh - how many times had he thought the same?

Instead, he spooned the porridge into a bowl, and set it into Sydney's hands. He ate slowly, no more than a few mouthfuls before he set it aside, but it stayed down. That, and Sydney sounding briefly like Sydney again, gave Hardin hope.

* * *

Progress was slow, but it was progress. Sydney seemed to have less pain, his color was better, and a few days later it was less of an effort for him to rise on his own. This Hardin discouraged, for what sustenance Sydney was able to stomach should be used for healing and maintenance, not movement. Hardin tried to count it as a good thing, as a sign that Sydney was recovering his strength, when Sydney begun to grow less agreeable, when he glared at Hardin or balked at his instructions. It was not easy for him to count it as a good thing, however, when it was wearing on his nerves.

They spoke little, aside from Hardin's admonishments to eat or to stay in bed, and Sydney's occasional resistance. They'd spoken to each other seldom since Leá Monde, in fact - Hardin simply hadn't noticed so much when there were others present for either of them to speak to. He found he missed Merlose more than he had expected he would, and Joshua just as he'd predicted. Even Riot had added some distraction just by being present.

Without such distractions, Hardin kept himself occupied by maintaining the cottage - keeping them well-stocked in firewood, checking the snares, drawing water, cooking and cleaning. All were tasks he'd done before, in his family home, after their dwindling fortune had made it necessary to release the majority of the servants. Meanwhile, denied the freedom to go out or to assist - not that he had offered - Sydney primarily sat at the window, silently staring outside. Though it could not be helped, Hardin found it disturbing, and wished they'd had the foreknowledge to bring books, simply so Sydney would do something other than stare. Or worse yet, and more likely knowing Sydney, _think_.

He'd been doing too much thinking himself, and was quite tired of it. It was strange, too, that Sydney had answered none of his thoughts. Although he was no longer priest or rood-bearer, and was apparently unable at the moment to use magic, Hardin thought that the talents unleashed by the Dark should have remained - he should have been able to read hearts without assistance, just as Hardin had no need to draw the Dark to scrye.

If it were so, he should have known that his hopeless murmurings were more of an irritant to Hardin than outright rebellion - at least the rebellion was in character. Yet he continued. "A lost cause," he said one night, turning his head from the bread Hardin offered. "By feeding me, you are wasting food that could be better put to use."

"No one else is here to eat it besides myself," Hardin stated. "There is more than enough."

"You could take what remains on your journey, as you return to our brethren."

Hardin snorted. "And leave you in this condition?"

He knew perfectly well what Sydney had meant, and Sydney did not surprise him. "I will go to my father's house. By denying me a quick death, you would deal me a longer, harder one." His voice changed, slightly - an undertone Hardin almost did not recognize. "...I had not thought _you_ so enjoyed causing pain."

Hardin found his teeth grinding, his fist clenching. Nothing had been said of _that_ , nor anything else they had enjoyed together. Now Sydney was trying to use it to manipulate him into submission?

"Pain is all that will come of this," Sydney continued, "for I will not survive."

"You speak of 'will'," Hardin growled. "Yours? Or the gods'? Who has decided that you are a dead man?" It had been taking longer than he expected - he'd begun wondering, in all seriousness, if Sydney was making himself ill on purpose just to be stubborn.

"It is not a matter of will - I have done what I set out to do," Sydney replied. "My father and I have played our roles, and with the end of the act, we no longer have a place in this world."

"The end of the act...?" Hardin repeated, his eyes narrowing. Ever since he'd learned the truth - even since Guildenstern had planted a seed of doubt - he'd been considering the scope of what had been done. The more he considered it, the larger it grew. "You played your role, did you? Think not that I do not understand _why_ , Sydney," he said hotly, "but while you played your _role_ , how many of our brethren played the _fool_ for your sake? More than I alone, though none _more_ than I - and yet somehow I live to stand before you now. Many of our brothers and sisters do not."

Sydney lowered his head. "...I would apologize, but they have been rewarded for their loyalty."

"Blasphemy though it may be," Hardin shot back, "I do not consider death much of a reward."

Sydney said nothing, but kept his head lowered. The implication seemed obvious to Hardin, especially as it had been in the back of his thoughts since Merlose had spoken to him in the forest. "...You do."

Still Sydney said nothing. It was as good as agreement.

Knowing Sydney's strong will, his determination to get what he wanted, Hardin found that the anger burning in him was suddenly joined by a fear just as paralyzing. The urge to flee, to give up a battle he must surely lose in the end, was strong. On the other hand, Hardin knew that if he gave in for even a moment...

"If you will not eat bread," he stated, "I will make soup."

"It makes little difference in the end," was Sydney's dull reply.

"Then," said Hardin, reaching out to take hold of Sydney's hand, to uncurl the fingers - so harmless and different from those he'd possessed previously, he hardly could think of them as Sydney's - "as the bread is already present and prepared, you will eat it."

If Hardin gave in for even a moment, Sydney's will would overcome his, as it always had. Hardin had welcomed the domination in the past, knowing that Sydney's will was to keep the both of them safe. Even after doubt had begun to sneak in, deep down he had still trusted in Sydney's wisdom, because he knew that at the very least, they wished for the same thing, though their opinions on how to go about the matter may have differed. Now that he knew Sydney's will had become something other than survival for the two of them, his own would have to become stronger.

Even so, Hardin did not feel that he had won a victory when Sydney, head still lowered, raised his hand to take a small bite of the bread. It would have felt more like an accomplishment if Sydney had glared at him, or refused.


	2. Chapter 2

Sleep had not come easily to Hardin for many years, for nearly as long as he had known Sydney. When it was not Sydney himself keeping Hardin awake, filling him with concern or desire, it had been dreams, memories, questions about the choices he had made throughout his life and whether the next might be even more disastrous. This time, it was a different kind of concern for Sydney that had him staring into the darkness; though Sydney had often been troubled or pained, never before had Hardin had to worry about whether or not he would live. He was beginning to think that perhaps he understood Sydney a bit better, now that he was the one who was ostensibly safe, looking upon someone who might die on the morrow. Not if Hardin had anything to say about it, of course.

He was dozing off at last, when the sound of Sydney stirring on the other bed startled him awake again. He waited for some other noise, some other movement, to tell him what might have roused Sydney, whether illness or ill intent. There was only silence and stillness, the sound of wind muffled by the cottage walls. Perhaps he was only turning over, or perhaps he knew he'd startled Hardin awake, and thus could not do whatever he'd hoped to do. At least it did not seem that he was ill. Hardin closed his eyes.

Sleep was still some distance off when he heard a whisper. "Hardin."

"Mmm." His reply was a drowsy grunt of acknowledgement, rougher than he'd intended and sleepier than seemed appropriate for the sudden tension in the room. He opened his eyes once more in preparation for whatever Sydney intended to say.

There was a long pause. Hardin felt it like a bowstring drawn taut, ready to let its arrow loose at any moment, and still Sydney said nothing. "If something is the matter..." Hardin began finally.

A rustling sound. Hardin thought it was Sydney shaking his head. But then, was he unwilling to speak, or un _able_ to speak? The Sight showed him Sydney's face, so dim as to be invisible to mortal vision in the darkness, but scrying revealed the lines at the corner of his mouth, the haunted, shadowed eyes.

It was an expression Hardin was quite familiar with, particularly in this context, and he began to sit up without consciously making the choice. Bereft of the Dark, he wondered, was Sydney still dreaming his prophecies, death and destruction and rains of fire from the heavens?

Evidently Sydney could in fact still read hearts without calling upon the Dark. "The future I saw has been averted," he murmured. "But no more pleasant than possible future calamity are the troubles we _know_ to be occurring in the present. ...My father..."

Hardin had already gotten to his feet, and he went to Sydney's bedside despite the twinge of resentment Sydney's words brought to the surface again. It was not the time to distance himself. "If you would speak of it..." Hardin offered, willing himself to recall other nights that Sydney had reached for him, rather than a night when he had looked up through eyes going dim and had an epiphany which had set his mind at ease even as it had proved that he'd been played false.

Sydney was still quiet as Hardin sat down beside him, gingerly slipped an arm around his waist. "...His health has been declining for years. The physicians have all marvelled at the fact he has survived this long."

"Stubbornness and secrets are family traits, I see," Hardin muttered - a small joke, for it was no joking matter. "Yet he has lived many years... a full life."

"He has," Sydney agreed. "And it was not stubbornness that kept him alive."

"The Dark, then...?"

Sydney nodded. "He knew of my dreams, and what they foretold. He wished to do what he could, until the day arrived... But although the Dark has been used many times throughout the ages in pursuit of immortality, it is not something man can control. He has gone on living... though his body dies."

So Sydney had kept the duke alive, stretching his life as far as it could go until the man could bear it no more. And then, just in time, the successor had appeared, and the power had been secured, the circle broken. Hardin understood all this, and that made it all that much harder to suppress the question he wanted to ask so badly.

"It has damaged him," Sydney continued softly, "much the same as it has damaged me, but far worse, for he could not have lived without the Dark. He will succumb, soon..."

So would Hardin; as his arms tightened around Sydney, he shook with the helpless frustration that he could no longer conceal. "Why?" he asked, his voice earnest and bitter. "Why did you not tell me the truth? You could not have believed I would not understand - you know I saw my own father die a painful death... Why would I have begrudged your wishes in this?"

"I could not tell you," murmured Sydney, and Hardin was not sure if Sydney was shaking too, or if it was only himself. "I could tell no one. If the Blades took you, if you misspoke - my father would have been ruined, and our family with him. He cared not for himself - he was dying anyhow - but Joshua... we had to protect Joshua..."

The worst of it was that Hardin truly did understand, and therefore could not fault Sydney in the least. He would have done the same for his own father, for his own brother... In a way, he had. He'd confessed, he'd betrayed even his friends, all in the hope that he could help what family he had left. He could not blame Sydney, he could not be angry with him, when his own choices had led him down the same path. What anger he felt was directed at himself as well...

But he also felt Sydney's arms around him, lips pressing against his throat just above the collar of his nightshirt, and he didn't care that they were cracked and much too dry when he lowered his head to meet them. They were both traitors, they had both done things that could not be sufficiently atoned for, but they could find comfort in each other, they could forget everything else. In the past, it had helped Sydney to forget his dreams, and for Hardin to forget his anger, even at times when it had been anger at Sydney...

Sydney's health was still fragile, however, as stiff and strong as his shoulders felt as they pressed against Hardin's chest, as his arms crushed against Hardin's ribs. Beyond the gasp as Sydney pushed him backwards, tugging his nightshirt up to bare his back, Hardin tried to remind himself to be careful, to be gentle... and Sydney must have heard the thought, for he tensed, almost bristling - he hated seeing weakness in himself, and especially hated others seeing weakness in him. His teeth nipped at Hardin's collarbone, and Hardin groaned, recognizing why Sydney had not yet pushed him down against the mattress, for his arms were winding around his waist, stretching upwards towards his shoulders, and Hardin braced himself for what he knew would come next, even as he anticipated it.

Instead of the pain he expected, the touch of razor-sharp blades marking his back, he was startled by a different sort of touch; Sydney's new fingers felt thick and blunt and awkward, harmless as they pressed against him. It was disorienting, unfamiliar, as much so as when Hardin had first been touched by Sydney's former hands, and such a shock that it broke the spell cast by Sydney's lips and tongue and teeth.

Sydney's hands tensed against Hardin's back, and the fingertips pressed against muscle and spine more fiercely, as if he willed them to become the blades once more. The hard metal raked over Hardin's skin, hard enough to bruise, he thought - but they were still merely fingers, and could not break the skin. It was not the touch that Hardin had grown used to, and now the touch of such hands left him unsettled.

Fists clenched against him in fury, and Hardin knew his reaction had not gone unnoticed. Quickly he raised his own hands to Sydney's sides again, trying to soothe him, but one palm landed upon his chest, fingers splayed in such a way that he would have been cut severely in the past as Sydney shoved him aside. This time, it did not hurt at all.

Hardin did as the gesture suggested anyhow, getting to his feet. Sydney's head hung low with disheveled hair covering his eyes, his shoulders heaved as he remained seated on the bed. "...I will go," Hardin muttered, and started for the door, tugging his nightshirt back into place. Sydney said nothing.

* * *

Sydney was not speaking at all, nor would he eat. How frustrating, Hardin thought, that he had lost all the progress he'd made the night before and more, even before he'd realized he'd made any at all. Sydney _had_ been talking, he'd shown himself vulnerable, he'd reached out...

Hardin wanted to apologize, though he could hardly say that he'd done anything wrong. He'd forgotten in the moment that some things were different now, but being surprised was not a sin. Even so, he knew it must have hurt Sydney to receive such a different reaction than he'd expected, particularly as Sydney had forgotten the changes himself. He hadn't intentionally done anything to hurt Sydney, but Sydney had been hurt nonetheless.

But then, he had been hurt as well, when Sydney pushed him away. Hardin knew perfectly well that Sydney would not apologize for that. He never did. It was always left to Hardin to be the bigger man, to make the first move towards peace. Even after he had, seldom did Sydney reciprocate in so many words.

There was no time to quibble, Hardin acknowledged grudgingly, after internally debating the matter for the better part of the day. His pride was not worth more than Sydney's life, and if Sydney would not hear his words, he had little chance of bringing Sydney back from the hopelessness that smothered him. Sydney had only just begun to manage regular meals - if one could count thin soups and gruel as regular meals - and Hardin did not want to have to begin the process all over again.

To this end, at last he came to stand before Sydney, whose stern expression had turned away to the window. "I apologize," Hardin murmured. "I meant no offense."

Sydney's expression did not change, tight and stony, and after a moment with no response, Hardin wondered if Sydney had even heard him. He was about to speak again, when Sydney finally replied. "For what do you offer this apology, Hardin?"

Hardin's jaw tensed. He knew now that Sydney could still read hearts, and so he must know what Hardin was referring to. If Sydney wanted him to say it aloud for some reason, though, so be it. "For my reaction to your touch last night. I had forgotten - I was caught off guard. ...I might have been more aware," he added, after another pause with no response. "I will attempt to be more so in the future."

"And that is all?"

Sydney's tone was nonchalant. It was a relief in one sense, for Hardin could see that he was up to his usual tricks, leading him on with his words. It was good to see Sydney behaving like Sydney. On the other hand, he had frequently found this particular habit of Sydney's irritating, and he suspected that he knew what Sydney was referring to. "It is," he said flatly. "I can apologize for having caused you discomfort, but I will not apologize for keeping you alive."

"There is no reason for you to persist," Sydney said dismissively. "What happened between us last night is the proof - we cannot go back to what we were previously. The man who so pleased you has passed on."

That was what Hardin had thought Sydney might mean - but to use _this_ reasoning? Hardin snorted, incredulous. "Are you suggesting," he began, "that it was your _hands_ that drew me to you? Have you forgotten how I once shied away from them?"

"Once you were frightened, yes," Sydney acknowledged. "But over time, you grew accustomed, even began to crave them. And then, nothing else would do - have _you_ forgotten that I have known your heart all along?"

"If it is so, then you know that your hands pleased me only because they were yours."

"They belonged to a man who no longer exists," Sydney insisted. "They were the hands of a strong sorceror, a prophet - they marked the avatar of the gods. Now he is no more, and-"

"Have you truly heard _nothing_ I have said all these years?" Hardin would not normally have interrupted Sydney, but he could not believe what he was hearing. "If I cared for this 'avatar of the gods', I would have gone with the Riskbreaker."

"And you should have," Sydney replied simply. "You can do nothing for me - and I can do nothing for you."

"Damn you!" Hardin cursed, slamming one hand down on the table with a thud as he turned away. "You refuse even to try!"

Sydney said nothing - silent agreement. Hardin took a deep breath, and only partially succeeded in bringing his anger under control. He'd been in that place himself, years ago, when he'd escaped from prison with much effort, only to find that his brother had succumbed to the illness in his absence. His effort was wasted; the reason for his continued existence had vanished. It would have been easy for him to stop trying, and at times he had wondered why he hadn't. It was his rage that had driven him, he'd decided later, and now he was glad that it had.

Perhaps, if Sydney persisted as he was, rage would serve Hardin well again. And perhaps, if rage had sustained him when he was so broken...

He looked back at Sydney, still sitting calmly on the bed with hands folded in his lap, and let himself seethe. "All this means," he growled, "is that I will have to try enough for the both of us - for I do not believe for a moment that your life has ended. If I have endured the loss of my livelihood, of all purpose and direction, and managed to start anew - you certainly can. Else you are a weakling, as well as a liar."

Few besides Hardin would have been able to tell that Sydney was no longer so calm. His posture had not changed, but his eyes burned as they rose to Hardin's. Good, Hardin thought - let Sydney become angry enough to prove him wrong.

Or perhaps it had backfired, he thought later that night. Sydney had not spoken to him since, and although he had forced down half a bowl of thin soup, it had been too much for him. It might be that now Sydney was determined to prove Hardin wrong in his end goal, rather than in the insults he didn't truly believe.

* * *

Hardin had had trouble keeping track of the days since Leá Monde. He was not sure how long he'd slept once they'd arrived at the cabin, and he could let himself fall into an exhausted sleep. He'd been awakened at strange hours to care for Sydney, his concern sneaking into even his dreams until he could not tell whether some of his memories had happened in that world or that of the waking. He thought, however, that it was the first day of the week, or else it had been the day before.

There was a ritual that Sydney had kept for as long as Hardin could remember - almost certainly since long before Hardin was aware of it. The first morn of each week, Sydney rose early, stealing away from his followers and from Hardin himself to seclude himself with his gods. It mattered not where they were, whether in town or wilderness - Sydney would find a solitary place to watch the sun rise and meditate upon the dawn.

The first time the appointed day had come after they'd fled Leá Monde, Sydney had been too weak to leave his bed. The second time, he had been terribly ill the night before, and Hardin could hardly blame him for not wanting to rise. But now it was the third; he'd regained some of his strength, he had slept through the night, and still he did not leave his bed for the weekly ritual. Hardin even woke once at the sound of Sydney stirring, only to see him sitting up, squinting at the sky that was beginning to lighten. Perhaps he considered it. Instead, he lay down again, pulling the sheets tight around himself.

This troubled Hardin far more than Sydney's continued poor health. If Sydney no longer felt it necessary to put forth effort even for his gods, what reason was there to think that he would put forth any whatsoever for Hardin?

* * *

"The paling weakens."

This was the first that Sydney had spoken in the past two days, sullen and silent as he was. Now it was early morning, and Hardin looked up from his breakfast to watch Sydney, poking reluctantly at his own porridge. He did not seem inclined to say anything further, which likely meant he expected Hardin to understand what he was implying. Of course he did - he had seen the footprints when he checked the snares.

"So I will cast the spell again."

Sydney shook his head. "You know not the enchantment. And I - I cannot show you, nor have I the ability any longer to use your body. When the paling has failed, it will be no more."

Hardin felt slightly ashamed to be relieved - he had never been comfortable with that ability of Sydney's. Besides, there was more at stake than his own comfort, and he frowned slightly. "I've seen the enchantment last until you had it dispelled."

"I did not have Ashley cast the more permanent version of the spell, but only a temporary one - I had no intention that anyone should remain here longer than a few days." The hand that did not hold Sydney's spoon tapped restlessly on the table. "I'm surprised it remained this long - his will is stronger than I'd expected."

So very soon, they would have no more magical protection from those who came looking for answers and survivors. Hardin wished he could be angry with Sydney for this, but neither had he expected to stay for so long. "...I have had time to heal my wounds," he stated. "I can dispose of any search parties easily enough."

"And when the search parties do not return, and the VKP and the Blades send out larger squadrons to investigate the area in which they disappeared?"

Hardin's frown grew deeper. He had a point. "...Then perhaps you'll get your coveted reward."

Infuriatingly, Sydney smiled softly, though he still did not look up. "If so, I will not be the only one to perish."

Better to die together than to leave you defenseless and live. The thought was a reflexive one, and even Hardin himself knew that it was a foolishly romantic thought; theirs was not a life of romantic idealism, but a life of necessity, of moving on and surviving at all cost so that all would not be lost. Honor had been left by the wayside long ago.

"As you said," Sydney continued, "you have recovered your strength. You could no doubt evade them easily, and go somewhere far from this place, where no one has heard the Lady's name, much less your own."

He shook his head. Sydney's persistence was making him cross. "What makes you think I would abandon you to the Blades any more than I would abandon you to yourself?"

"Then you are a fool."

Hardin threw his silverware down on the table in disgust, and allowed himself to say what he'd been thinking for some time, since Sydney had confirmed his wish to die. "And _you_ are a coward."

Now Sydney looked up, almost indignant, but Hardin was not finished. "You are a _coward_ , Sydney - you clung to your power and your position and your immortality, as if it were what made you who you were. It was well when people revered you for these, and you could accept their adoration then, but when I dared to see beyond your power to the man within? That you could not accept, the idea that someone loved you for _you_ , and you denied it time and time again, trying to delude even yourself into believing it was a lie, telling me it was folly. You endured mortal wounds as though they were nothing, but now that you must make an effort to heal, you give in to the pain. What made you so afraid to be an ordinary man, Sydney? Why do you fear a life lived as any other, and why do you fear my caring for you?"

Sydney's eyes had widened at the outburst, and now he looked stunned, and a little uncertain. Was it because Hardin had never dared to speak in such a way to him - no one would have, in fact - or only because he wasn't sure he wanted to answer the question?

Hardin didn't feel like giving him the chance anyway. "During this last campaign, I was afraid. I asked that I be allowed to give the order to withdraw, but you would not listen - you forced me, and the rest of our number, to push on. You refused to let me give in to fear. I refuse to let _you_ give in to that which you denied me."

Sydney was still staring in disbelief, but something in his wide eyes hardened abruptly. "You _refuse_ , Hardin?" he hissed. "How dare you refuse _anything_ I ask - have you forgotten your oath?"

"You cannot have it both ways!" Hardin snapped. "All this time you have been claiming that Sydney Losstarot is gone, for he was no more than a vessel for the Dark, a powerful tool for the gods. If that was all he was, then the one to whom I swore an oath is no more, and I am a free man - free to do what I believe is right, even if it means refusing you!"

Sydney's glare lessened for a moment, his thoughts turning inward. He must have realized that the logic was sound, for abruptly he rose, pushing himself back from the table with such force that the bowl of porridge was upset, tumbling to the floor and breaking. In a whirl of blond hair and loose fabric, he had turned and started for the door before Hardin could react.

After a moment's deliberation, Hardin decided not to. Sydney would not go far, and he was capable of keeping watch without moving an inch. ...Besides, he thought grimly as he cleaned up the mess Sydney had left behind, this was more characteristic of Sydney - throwing a fit when he was outmaneuvered, when he could not get his own way. How many hours had Hardin spent kneeling on the floor, cleaning up spills or broken crockery or mending shredded linens rent by Sydney's hands? ...That was one thing he would not be doing again, he recalled, and the thought did not entirely please him.

As Hardin had expected, though Sydney's strength had improved, he did not go far before his exertion and his anger had worn him out, and he seated himself, panting, beneath the overhanging branches of a willow. As safe a place as any, Hardin thought, and quickly scryed the surrounding area. There were no signs of anyone else's presence in the forest today; he would check back periodically until Sydney returned anyhow.

For a time, Sydney raged, scratching furrows into the earth, much shallower than he used to be capable of. Then he simply sulked. For a time, Hardin found him asleep.

He did not return until late evening, and said not a word, nor did he so much as look Hardin in the eye. However, he did seat himself at the table he had stormed away from. When Hardin placed a cup before him, just as silent and stubborn, he did drink.

Once they were both lying in bed in the darkness, Hardin found his thoughts drifting to what Sydney had said earlier - he had been too distracted afterwards to think what to do about the paling's imminent failure. Despite the cold, he rose from his bed once more before sleep - bringing his sword to lean against the headboard, and a long dagger to keep beneath his pillow.

* * *

It had been some time since Hardin dreamed of the walls of his cell. It was as he remembered, but for the small fire that burned in the center, just like the campfires he and Sydney would set for themselves when they traveled alone.

Sydney himself sat on the other side of the fire, cross-legged, with his hands in his lap - or what was left of them. At first they looked as if they were curled into fists, but then Hardin saw that he had no fingers. Perhaps it was no wonder that he looked unhappy. "Are you weary?" he asked Hardin.

He was, now that it had been suggested to him. With Sydney's power, he need not reply aloud, and Sydney nodded. "I tire as well. Come, let us rest-"

And then the fire was gone and Sydney was reaching for him, offering a soft, kind smile as his hands went for Hardin's throat. "We shall find peace at last," he said reassuringly, as Hardin's hands tried to pry Sydney's free - he must have fingers after all, for they were clenched around Hardin's neck, squeezing, and he smiled as Hardin had rarely seen him smile...

Hardin woke with a start, but Sydney was sleeping soundly in the other bed when Hardin scryed for a sight of him. Hardin took a deep breath, and despite feeling somewhat foolish, did not close his eyes again. Insomnia was preferable after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Sydney was taking food without argument again during the next few days, even a bit of bread. He still spent much of the time lying down, curled into himself, and Hardin could only assume that he was in pain, whether from the effort of eating or his wound or something else. It was still progress.

Hardin would have been more pleased about this if Sydney would deign to speak to him for any reason other than to say that he was doing much better, and Hardin should leave while he had the chance. The motivation there was entirely transparent, and Hardin wasted no words in saying so. It was no wonder that Sydney wasn't speaking to him otherwise, he supposed.

"I should like to send word to my father, if he still lives. We had made arrangements... when all of this was past, I would go to him. He should know why I have not come."

The latest excuse to get rid of Hardin, no doubt. "Because of my meddling, is that it?"

Sydney shrugged faintly, from where he had been huddled upon his bed since his miniscule meal at noontime. "If you prefer to think of it in so many words..."

Hardin ignored Sydney's attempt at baiting him. "And how would I deliver such a missive? The VKP knows my face, as well as the Duke's own servants, and I have not your talent for changing it. After our siege, I would not be allowed to come near the man. And unlike you, I have no desire to die."

"You might take a letter to the village - you will need to go soon already, for we are nearly out of both food and lamp oil." Sydney sat up slowly, shakily, and Hardin frowned; he should stay still. "I could have it ready in but a short time."

Hardin watched him warily. He was plotting something... but Hardin had no idea what he could plot with a mere letter, particularly one that he himself would carry. Did Sydney expect for a moment that under the circumstances, he would not confirm the contents?

Sydney raised his head to glare at Hardin. "Very well - so I still live, as you have said. Is this what you wished to hear? I shall not survive much longer, even so."

Hardin nodded, grudgingly. "It is, but I cannot believe you. Your health has improved."

"Somewhat." This time, apparently, it was Sydney's turn to ignore the parts that he didn't want to hear. "It matters little. If I still live, and you do not intend to die, I ask that you remember your oath, Hardin. You belong to me."

The words caused him to bristle, after all that had happened in Leá Monde - they echoed the words Hardin had heard as he'd nearly fulfilled his oath, bleeding on the floor of the cathedral. "...Yes."

"And thus you must do my bidding." Sydney pulled himself upright, making his way to the parcels Callo had brought from the village before the others had left. "It is only a small task, Hardin. You have done much greater in my service."

"I will take the letter tomorrow." Sydney's sudden urgency made Hardin suspicious.

Searching through a pack, Sydney came up with a parchment and a bottle of ink. "And if I want it taken today?"

"Then I must ask why it matters so much that it be taken today."

"My father's condition is more grave than my own," Sydney replied, nonchalant as he settled down at the table.

"You said yourself he may already have passed on," Hardin pointed out. "Why would you suddenly have something so important to say, when you'd not thought to send word until just now?"

Sydney paused in his uncorking of the ink bottle, narrowing his eyes at Hardin. "It is not for you to know. You are mine, Hardin, and you will do as I say."

"Obeying without question, even when you will not explain why I do what I do..." Hardin muttered. "As I always have. You play that card _now_ , Sydney?"

"Why should I not? An oath is in fact an oath."

Truthfully, Hardin knew he was correct. But coming so soon on the heels of everything that had just transpired... The Sight allowed him to look over Sydney's shoulders as he began writing. Sydney and the Duke had used a system of false names and substitutions in their correspondance, and this time was no different. Nothing was being written that seemed to be anything other than what it was, even so - regrets that an old friend could not visit the Duke in his infirmity, a mention of this friend's own failing health, the roads being unsafe for travel in these difficult years... Hardin could not imagine what sort of plot such a letter could be hiding.

By the time Sydney had finished, pressing a common man's seal into the hot wax, Hardin's mood and expression were grim. Unexpectedly, Sydney's expression was just as much so as he turned to Hardin, holding out the letter. "Go at once."

Hardin's arms remained crossed, rather than reaching out to accept the parchment. "You will not tell me what you are plotting?"

"No."

Hardin's expression darkened further. "You do not deny that you _are_ plotting something."

"Would that change your oath?" Sydney inquired, raising an eyebrow sardonically. "I do not believe it would."

The fact that he was getting more and more agitated about the matter, not even bothering to hide the fact that he clearly _was_ up to something and not telling Hardin about it, made Hardin all that much angrier. "Oath or no," he shot back, "I've grown tired of your deceptions and your secrets. After all I've done for you, all the sacrifices I've made, can you not explain yourself to me? Even to me?"

"I am not required to explain myself to you." For what seemed like the first time since escaping the city, Sydney looked wholly like himself again, cold and distant and unconcerned. It was one of the expressions of his that Hardin knew best, and hated the most, particularly when the grey of his eyes hardened to match his words. "You belong to me - you will do as I say, regardless of what you think of my orders. You always have in the end, no matter how you fight it. You are far too honorable to do otherwise - this is what has made you such a wonderful pawn."

That word... Hardin's vision clouded over with rage. Sydney could still read hearts, so he knew which memories the topic had prompted in Hardin, and he knew how they had wounded him more deeply than the man's sword. Sydney had never even _used_ the word before - to use it now was willful cruelty.

...It was also far too obvious. "I know better than that," Hardin stated, despite the uncertainty welling up in him, just as it had when Guildenstern had first stated it, just as it had when Merlose had implied that Sydney might be keeping secrets even from him. "I know you too well."

"Do you?" Sydney inquired. "You hadn't the slightest idea what my true objective was all this time, and even after it was proven that I deceived you... you still cling to hope." Sydney's eyes met his. "You've been a pawn your whole life, Hardin. Always holding out faith that you did what you did because it was your choice - but you've been a pawn, sacrificing yourself for little gain."

"Silence," Hardin told him firmly. Sydney's words were angering him, and knowing that it was intentional did not keep his anger at bay - they were too well-chosen.

"A pawn of the state, a pawn of your family... You destroyed yourself for the sake of your brother. And then, once you had failed him-"

That was enough to make Hardin's anger finally boil over, as carefully as he had been trying to avoid it. "Enough, damn you!" he shouted.

"You have been a pawn because you wanted nothing better," Sydney said simply. "All your life, you've sought only to serve, to gain the illusion of being useful. But pawns have no power, Hardin. You could not save your brother, and you cannot save me. All you can do is what I tell you to do."

"Damn you!" Hardin swore again. "Do you want so badly to die that you would have me kill you myself?! Why do you say such things?"

"Because a pawn with its own will is useless," Sydney hissed. "Now get out - with or without the letter, it matters little to me whether or not you would still honor your oath. But if you will not, let us not pretend any longer."

Hardin stared at him for a long moment. Thoughts were racing through his mind, but he couldn't hear any of them above the pounding in his ears.

At last, he snatched the letter out of Sydney's hand. "Call me a pawn if you will," he growled as he turned away, "but never will you call me an oathbreaker. I have served you this long," he continued, his voice rising in his anger as he started for the door, "and I have served you with all I had - including my own will!" The rush of his blood was such that he could hardly make out his own words, even as he shouted. "But never again, Sydney - if you will taunt me and provoke me for it, never again!"

He was not sure, as he stepped outside, slamming the door to the cottage behind him, what he meant just yet. Would he go back, for the sake of his oath, and continue to let Sydney use him - as he had been using him for years? Or did the discovery of Sydney's lies and concealments overrule even that? Sydney had never promised him a thing in return, after all... he had only suggested, implied.

The worst of it was that everything Sydney had said was the truth. He had wanted to be used. He had held onto hope for far too long. And of course, his will had never been able to stand up to Sydney's. Sydney was pushing him away, he had decided that he was lost... and therefore, he _had_ already lost Sydney.

Sydney was lost. Hardin found that he was shaking with rage as he stalked through the thicker forest beyond the cottage's clearing, paying no attention to where he was going.

If he did _not_ return, where would he go? He could perhaps find somewhere far away, as Sydney had suggested. Settle down with a different name, with a home and a job, perhaps a wife. He could have children, as he'd always wanted. Though once the idea had sounded attractive, Hardin wasn't sure he could manage it now - his life had too long been far from normal. His family name would not live on, even if he were to have a son. And to imagine a life lived without the Dark, without constant pressure from the authorities... without _Sydney_...

Sydney would die without Hardin keeping him alive, but that was what he'd already decided. So, Hardin wondered... what then about himself? He had said he had no desire to die, but without Sydney... did he have the desire to live?

He would have to decide the answer to that question quickly, he discovered as he stepped out from a thick copse - and came abruptly face to face with a dozen armed men.

The insignia on the armor showed them to be from the Blades, not the VKP. They'd stopped short at the sight of him as well, though they'd been in a hurry moments before, and they stared at him just as he stared at them.

"Aye," began one of the men, wary but pleased. "It's one o' them, sure enough. Sydney won't be far behind this one."

Their weapons were already drawn. They were so close, they must have heard the shouting inside the cottage and come to investigate, Hardin realized. As they began to advance, he reached for his own sword, and had another realization - that distracted as he'd been, he hadn't belted it to his waist, but left it sitting against the frame of his bed.

His thoughts were too scattered for magic. He had no time to prepare a summoning. Even if he tried to lure them away, they would find the cottage easily now that the paling was no more. He _might_ be capable of taking out a dozen well-prepared knights, if he had his sword. It was an easy enough decision, and he took a step back as the knights stepped closer - his only chance to survive was to go back. The question was, he thought as he turned on his heel, could he outrun them?

As he'd expected, they gave chase at once. Despite the fact that they were armored and Hardin was not, he had spent the last weeks mostly on rest and recovery; his breath left him quickly. As well, he had to find a path in the underbrush, which was thicker back the way he came, and they were only a few steps behind already, almost within range of a longsword, which they had and he did not...

He was watching the ground, trying simply to keep his footing amidst shrubs and vines, as he stumbled into the clearing beside the cottage. His head jerked up at once when he saw a flash of light, tendrils of energy swooping over him and around him - seeking out the Blades that pursued him, he saw as he turned, watching them as they were engulfed, seared.

When the afterimage had left his eyes, he looked back at the cottage. Sydney was in the doorway, head hanging listlessly, one arm trying to prop himself up on the post as he coughed weakly, blood trickling from his mouth.

Hardin wasn't able to catch him before he hit the ground, though he tried. As he carried Sydney back inside, he wondered why.

The evening grew late, the cottage grew dark, and still Sydney remained unconscious on his side on his bed, bleeding from nose and mouth and breathing unevenly. Hardin considered getting up from where he'd settled, or at least moving Sydney's head from his lap, but he had too much to think about. The words that Sydney had used to hurt him, the sudden urgency of the request... it made sense now. It didn't stop the words from hurting, but...

Eventually, Sydney's breath rattled frighteningly in his throat, but then he coughed painfully. He must have awakened, for one metal hand lifted to wipe the blood from his lips. Hardin didn't speak; he was uncertain what to say first, if in fact Sydney was well enough to reply.

Of course Sydney heard anyhow. "Yes," he said, in a rasping whisper. "I felt them... nearby. When one of them spotted the cottage through the trees... and took his party to find reinforcements before returning..."

So Sydney had had only a short advance warning. "...So your sudden need to have a message taken to the Duke... What you were plotting..."

"You could not have defeated all of them. You should have done as I said, and left at once."

Just as Hardin had puzzled out while he sat there, cradling Sydney's head in his lap. Sydney coughed again, and Hardin's fingers combed through his hair. "Casting the spell in such a state could have killed you."

Sydney's chest heaved - a nearly silent coughing fit, or was he laughing? "I am dying anyway - perhaps you would not have resented me for my death if it came in such a way."

"...Fool." The hand combing through Sydney's hair caressed his cheek as well, and two fingers came away dark and wet. "Of course I would have."

All was silent, aside from Sydney's harsh breathing, though there was one more thing Hardin wanted to know. Hardin felt just as much a fool for dwelling on the matter, more so for wanting to say it aloud, still more so for being afraid to, but finally he broke down and asked. "...What you said, before I left... Was Guildenstern right, about you and I?"

Sydney coughed again slightly before speaking. "Yes, I used you. Of course I used you," he whispered. "I used everyone - you were by my side for years, you knew that." He was right - Hardin had known it all too well, and he had been a part of it.

"I was using you also," Sydney admitted, his voice taking on an edge of desperation despite the hush, "but as I said, you wished for it. You craved it. Even so... you were not my pawn. _Never_ my pawn."

This Hardin had also known, in his very soul. Before he could respond, could apologize for ever having believed Guildenstern's words, for needing to ask, Sydney drew a shuddering breath, and when he spoke again, his voice in the darkness was calmer, more certain. ...Sincere.

"Rather... you were my rook. You who let yourself be moved by my hands - you were my chariot, my tower, my strong fortress."

There were a hundred words in Hardin's heart when Sydney fell silent, but he spoke not one, nor did he move. Rather than end the moment by word or deed, he let Sydney's words hang in the air, as the tears suddenly hung at the corners of his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

Loathe as Hardin was to leave Sydney while he was so close to death - or even to let go of him - he left the cottage late in the night to dispose of the bodies. The corpses still remained where the spell had caught them, burned and broken. These Blades were not Guildenstern's; they had not entered the city, they had not touched the Dark. Hardin supposed that nearly all of those had likely been lost.

Sydney was still unconscious when Hardin had finished covering the shallow grave with brush, and did not wake until the next morning. He was so ill he could not speak, so weak he could not sit up under his own power, but he was awake, and seemingly sound of mind when his words entered Hardin's heart.

More knights will come. If you will not go, then the paling must be restored.

"Don't be even more a fool," Hardin said, fear sharpening his words. "Just look at what casting even a simple spell has done to you."

Sydney sighed faintly. I am aware of my limitations - and yes, the spell of warding is beyond them currently. Yet it is not beyond your ability.

Hardin didn't know the spell, and Sydney knew that, which left only one possibility in Hardin's mind. "...In this state, you would try to teach me?"

Sydney shook his head. I would need to borrow your body.

This was something Sydney had done before, though it had always left Hardin somewhat unnerved. Besides... He frowned. "Did you not say you could no longer compel me?"

Compel, no. Manipulate, yes. Sydney reached up gingerly, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as if his head ached. I can no longer overrule your own will - and this talent of mine is not so strong as it once was. But I can move you... if you completely relinquish all control to me.

Hardin nodded slightly. "I have done this before."

Sydney's lips twitched. No, you have not. When I have made use of your body in the past, there were moments when you resisted, and you have always been strong-willed. My own will, directed through my talent, overcame those uncertainties in your heart, and you did not break free from my control. I no longer have the power to do so - if we are to do this, your trust in me must be absolute, lest my control be broken.

Hardin considered this. Honestly, he did not like it. He never had.

Do you trust me with your life, Hardin?

After the previous day's events? "Of course." It was Sydney's own life that he did not trust Sydney with.

Sydney took a sudden harsh breath, and started to choke. Hardin had the feeling he'd started to laugh. Though he didn't find it the least bit amusing, he rubbed Sydney's back as he coughed.

Although I care not to save my own life, you care to save yours, and so I will help.

Hardin had to admit that he appreciated the sentiment, which he had not quite grown accustomed to, even with the entire night to contemplate that Sydney really _had_ put his own life at risk to save him. "I care to save both our lives," he pointed out even so.

If that is as the gods will... It is the least that I can do for you.

Hardin's brow furrowed. ...Was that a different sentiment than what Sydney had been expressing before?

Do not raise your hopes just yet, Sydney admonished. We are presently in danger, and I cannot be sure whether or not it can be done.

This was true, Hardin grudgingly acknowledged. "I will try, Sydney."

Give me a moment to rest and collect myself. He shifted, and Hardin moved to help him lie down again. What provisions have we left from the city? Mana bulb, vera root...? They may help to stabilize what power remains in me.

They did have a few of the herbs left, but... "Could you swallow them?"

The initial response was vocal this time, a faint reproachful moan. Point taken. But if you are willing to try to do your part, I will try to do mine.

Hardin nodded appreciatively, and as Sydney lay still, he went to look through their less-than-mundane supplies. They'd not been touched since Riot and Merlose left, but there had not been many remaining then. Even so, Riot had scavenged a few items within the city to add to the collection, including potions distilled from the herbs. Perhaps Sydney would find these easier to swallow, Hardin thought.

Sydney waited until he felt up to speaking aloud again before telling Hardin he was ready. Even then, he trembled as Hardin propped him up, lifted the bottle to his lips, urged him to take it slowly. Sydney could do no more than sip at the draught, but after giving it a moment, he said that he felt it working. "And you?" he asked, his voice calm but still hoarse. "Are you prepared?"

Prepared to let someone else control his body, all the time with no misgivings? "...I am prepared to try," he said honestly.

"Then let us begin," Sydney murmured. "Relax, Hardin... remember that it is only me."

Hardin tried, taking a breath and closing his eyes. As when Sydney had done this before, he felt nothing at all out of the ordinary until he felt his arm suddenly rise. It fell again at once, and he opened his eyes as Sydney shook his head. "Again."

As they attempted the bond over and over, it became clear to Hardin that Sydney truly _had_ overcome his own will when they'd done this in the past. If he was steeling himself not to flinch at the invasion, willing himself to let it happen, and it _still_ was enough to disrupt Sydney's control...

After yet another attempt that got no further than Hardin starting to rise from where he sat upon the bed, Sydney chuckled faintly. "You are too tense, too quick to react."

"My apologies," Hardin muttered. This was growing frustrating.

"I don't suppose our inquisitor friend acquired any strong liquor among the household supplies? I imagine it would have helped you to relax."

Hardin shook his head. A pity - he was probably correct. "All we have is Leá Monde's wines."

"Not strong enough."

"No," Hardin agreed. "I am willing to try again, as long as you are."

"I have little else to do at the moment." Sydney almost sounded as if this were amusing to him. Yet his next suggestion was more serious. "...Try using the Sight, Hardin. This may seem less worrisome if you are only watching it happen, from outside yourself. Remember, your body is nothing but a vessel - let it be filled with me, rather than you."

This worked a bit better, Hardin found. It was like watching a dream, watching someone else. As long as he concentrated on simply watching, it was easier to let go.

Until Sydney caused him to step to the door - and he moved so differently when Sydney was moving him, as if he were only drifting in a current - and he felt the pressure of the knob against his hand, reminding him of what was happening.

He made a quiet sound of irritation in his throat as Sydney sighed. "Nearly, Hardin. Let us try again. Remember, it is only me."

"I know," Hardin muttered, trying not to feel shame. He had thought his trust in Sydney was absolute - although it had been shaken for a time, Sydney had been willing to die for him. Twice, if one counted the fact that he'd sent Hardin to safety with Callo and the boy while he remained to face Guildenstern alone. Perhaps even more telling, he thought, was that now it seemed that Sydney was willing to go on living for him.

The realization that he'd opened the door and stepped outside without realizing it jolted him back to himself, and he nearly stumbled at the transfer of control. Even so, he suddenly had hope - he knew what he must do. "Again," he told Sydney, returning to the bed and lifting him, so that he could come along and see, for he could not scrye as Hardin could, and as Hardin did now. Hardin saw from outside himself that Sydney knew what he intended, for Sydney smiled in his arms, very faintly.

Hardin recalled... the time when they'd met - that was a good enough place to start. How Sydney had infuriated him by reading his heart, but afterward soothed him, offered him food and a warm place to rest among his people. He recalled Sydney's careful teaching after he'd accidentally stumbled across the Dark. How Sydney had seemingly pursued him, but never pushed at all once drink had made him go too far in his pursuit. Sydney had held him when the grief of his brother's death had caught up with him at last, encouraged him when his heart was sick from the corruption in the land, offered everything of his own body from the start and yet taken nothing but what meager offerings Hardin could make in return. It had been Hardin who had offered his flesh beneath Sydney's claws - and what a distraction that was - while Sydney had never gone too far, and Hardin had never believed that he would, even at Sydney's most violent moments. He _had_ trusted Sydney. Even when he did not understand, even when Sydney's temper ran wild and Hardin wondered if he might have been driven mad by the Dark. It was not his oath that made him stay...

Already he had placed Sydney on the ground beside the doorpost and made a circuit of the cottage's exterior, finding the points of power to energize them - for the circle remained from ages past, when others had made similar use of this cottage, and more recent sorcerors had maintained it - and now words he did not understand were rolling off his tongue as easily as if he were fluent in this strange language. Hardin quickly made himself remember Sydney's attempts at teaching him ancient Kildean, the time he had accidentally reversed two syllables and apparently said something quite inappropriate... Though his body's mouth was otherwise occupied, Hardin's soul laughed, because suddenly he thought he knew what he had inadvertantly said, now that he knew more of the nuances.

The Dark flowed through him, and his arms were upstretched. There was a flash of light flaring upwards from the circle, but it lasted for only an instant. To his eyes, there was no difference. To anyone else, he knew that they would simply not see the cottage - their eyes would be turned away.

"Hardin." Sydney's voice came to him as if from further away than he was. "It is done."

Even given warning, Hardin _did_ stumble this time. Without Sydney's control, he was surprised at how drained he felt. "A spell of this sort requires much power," Sydney explained as Hardin reached out to steady himself upon the wall. "As much as a high summon. Few beside the Bearer can cast it, but you have always been strong in the Dark."

"Barely strong enough for this, I dare say." But he would be fine, even if he felt disoriented and exhausted now. The thought of what it would have done to Sydney, if he had been the one to cast it...

"But strong enough, even so." Sydney smirked slightly as Hardin looked to him, concerned. "It was your strength alone, Hardin - do not fear for me. To me, this effort was no more than the act of drawing the circle."

Hardin nodded. It was not physical weariness he felt, but it seemed to make little difference. Regardless, he had enough physical strength remaining to pick Sydney up again, to take him back inside, to the bed. "I should cast the other perimeter wards," he muttered as he set Sydney down - there were simpler spells which he knew well, spells that would tell him if anyone came near, that would ensnare anyone who came too close...

"There is no need," Sydney told him. "Not now. We are for the moment safe, and there are other matters that will require your attention later. You would do better to rest."

Hardin was still dubious of Sydney's motives. He couldn't help it, given Sydney's plotting to save his life while letting his own end the day before. "Was this the permanent version of the spell?" he inquired.

"That, Hardin, _is_ beyond your strength - or any besides the Bearer, aside from a circle of six. This paling will remain according to your will. Which means it will likely hold for some time..." He regarded Hardin critically as the other sat down upon his own bed. "I cannot let the Blades take me, you realize. Not without them taking you as well, and that I will not allow."

Hardin felt a stab of shame. "I apologize."

"This is no rebuke," Sydney stated, "but reassurance. ...I do recognize," he added, his eyes slightly averted, "that your trust in me has been tested severely of late."

"Yet your deception was not for my hurt," Hardin murmured, "nor was it a lack of faith in me. I understand. I am trying to trust anyhow."

"Good - I would do nothing differently, were I to do it again." Sydney's voice was firm, and aside from the lingering exhaustion, he sounded much as he always had. "But there is nothing of value in my future - I have no more plots, no more secrets, no more to gain or to lose. If nothing else, Hardin, trust that I would not pointlessly throw your life away with mine."

Hardin hated that he believed Sydney in _all_ of this, but he did.


	5. Chapter 5

Amazingly, Sydney's spellcasting had not been so terrible a setback as Hardin had expected. It may have been that Sydney had already recovered from a great deal more of the damage done by the Dark than it had seemed, or perhaps even such a spell as he had cast was only a small thing to one who could do the things Sydney could do. Or that Sydney had been able to do, Hardin reminded himself - there were many things he had done that he would never be able to do again. His swift recovery made Hardin think that perhaps Sydney had not entirely lost the Dark. If he just kept away from it for a time, while his wounds healed and his body readjusted itself to working as mortal flesh did, then he might be able to use the Dark as Hardin still could.

In the meantime, he was taking food again, and more than he'd been able to manage recently - he even took bread with his broth now, to Hardin's relief. Their suspicion was that it might have been due to the potions. Since they had helped to stabilize Sydney a bit, and he had recovered from the excess strain so quickly, Sydney took a small amount of the draughts daily, in hopes that they might help further. There were no ill effects that either of them could see, and Sydney's condition continued to improve.

Even more than the improvements in his physical state, Hardin was encouraged by the fact that although Sydney may not have preferred to live, he seemed at least to have resigned himself to living for the time being, and was trying to make his extended convalesence less uncomfortable. He spoke to Hardin more often. If what he said was often irritable, Hardin could hardly blame him for being frustrated with his condition. He had, after all, been invulnerable until recently, the next best thing to being a god, though that was another thing that Hardin had never had absolute faith in. He'd always worried over the risks Sydney took, and perhaps that was why he had accepted all of this so easily.

Still, it was with a hopeful heart that Hardin set out for one of the nearby villages. Another letter had been written to Duke Bardorba, somewhat lengthier and with more details hidden within what passed as ordinary conversation. And although their food and fuel supply had dwindled far more gradually with only himself and Sydney present - and Sydney not eating - than it had when there were four adults and a child, there was little left in the cottage after so long. Now that Sydney was eating again, especially, Hardin wanted to make sure he might have plenty of food on hand, and so he had set out again with another of the bottles of wine Riot had left behind. He hoped he would find something that might tempt Sydney's appetite, for Sydney still ate less than he should.

The seasons were beginning to turn, and there were early fruits in the market, berries and apples. Hardin considered the apples, remembering the sweet fruit bread Sydney had favored when they stayed at the duke's manor - he'd eaten little else. But then, Hardin knew little about baking. Perhaps sweets would be tempting enough, he thought, and bought a bit of honey to flavor the more ordinary bread he'd purchased.

During the walk back to the cottage, his thoughts drifted to Sydney, his nonchalance about his own death. Hardin wondered if he ought not to have left him alone. Surely he would not harm himself when his true intention was to die with his father, leaving the world together, but Hardin wasn't sure he was above sending Hardin off to buy food, only to return to a fallen paling and a cottage emptied by the Blades or the VKP's agents. Hardin was close enough now, and concern bid him to See.

Sydney remained in his bed, where he had been sleeping that morning when Hardin had left. He was not still now, however - beneath the sheets, his body twitched, his chest heaved. Momentarily Hardin was concerned, for Sydney's expression was tense, his eyes squeezed shut, as if he were pained...

Then Hardin observed Sydney's position, the hunch of his shoulders, the rhythm of his movement, and abruptly he felt his face redden. No, Sydney was not in pain. Rather the opposite, and he should not be watching.

He knew this, and yet he could not stop.

Aside from that single thwarted attempt at seduction, Hardin had not thought of Sydney in such a context since escaping the city. He _could_ not, when Sydney was so frequently ill, and so subdued besides - he had only infrequently seemed like Sydney at all. Even seeing him like this now was not so much arousing as curious. He must have been feeling better, regaining his strength, for him to feel this need - and it was something Hardin had never seen in him before, no matter how many times and in how many ways he had beheld Sydney in intimate moments. Until recently this would not have been possible for Sydney, given the metal blades he had so long had in place of his fingers. He could not have used his hands to touch himself safely...

...He could not have used his hands to touch anyone _else_ safely, either. The epiphany made Hardin freeze.

Mesmerized by the thought, Hardin found that it was impossible for him to let go of the Sight now. Taking a deep breath, he set his parcels down, sitting against a tree to simply watch and consider.

When Sydney's breathing slowed, his expression was not peaceful, though it relaxed. There was a measure of relief, to be sure, but not a trace of the subtle smile he usually wore when it had been the two of them together. Instead, his face seemed to fall a little. It had been release, Hardin supposed, rather than pleasure. Suddenly, two conclusions struck him.

...Sydney had taken more pleasure in Hardin than he could manage by himself.

It also could have been that Sydney was only... _testing_ his hands, to ensure that it could be done.

Hardin closed his eyes, and let the vision slip away. He would not think overmuch upon it, but neither would he hide his thoughts from Sydney, even if there were so many factors as to make the matter more complicated than it had ever been.

Sydney said nothing on the subject upon Hardin's return, nor that night, despite the fact that he must have noticed the pause before Hardin climbed into bed, the thoughtful glances that were aimed at his own as the two of them slowly fell asleep.

* * *

Night and day - it made little difference anymore, when there was nothing to do but watch and wait. Not that Hardin knew what he was waiting for any longer. Sydney seemed improved, nearly normal - or what passed for normal, for he'd never had much appetite - aside from his continued listlessness, his disinterest in saying or doing anything at all. He was withdrawing again, and there was no provocation, whether verbal or physical, despite Hardin's hopes that he might be returning to himself. Instead, it was as though Hardin were living with an empty shell, an automaton. He wanted badly to spark _something_ in Sydney, anything at all - but he wasn't sure what would help, and what might damage him. It was a frightening thought, that Sydney should be so fragile.

With no direction to his doings, Hardin's natural rhythms were disrupted; he found himself growing tired later, and waking earlier. And so it was that late one morning, he was jolted awake by a shock he could not quite identify when half-asleep.

Before his eyes had even opened, instinctively he scryed the cottage's interior - and found a man in the armor of the Crimson Blades standing only a few paces from his bed.

It was the warding spells that had awakened him, Hardin realized as his hand darted to the dagger he still kept beneath his pillow - but there were other enchantments, so how could the knight have entered-

Move not, Hardin. Speak not. Sydney's voice spoke in his mind with perfect calm, and instinctively Hardin followed its instructions, freezing only half-risen from his bed. He is not here, but there.

Indeed, now that his eyes were open, Hardin saw that something was not quite right about the knight. The color of his skin and the red emblem on his armor were washed nearly to grey, and as the helm tilted towards Hardin suddenly, he seemed to stretch and waver like one of the wandering spirits of Leá Monde. His voice, when he spoke, was as a distant echo. "...They spoke truly, brother. This place is... ensorcelled at best, haunted at the worst. I... it seems as though I can see someone here from the edges of my eyes, hear them moving, but when I look at them, they are gone."

The paling has taken everything within its circle into the Mists, Sydney's voice explained, and Hardin turned his head to see Sydney sitting straight upon his bed, staring intently at the shifting visage of the knight. We are worlds apart, we and this knight. Yet the spell was cast imperfectly, for we can see him, and he can sense us.

Worlds apart or not, Hardin was not pleased by the sight of one of the Blades standing so close. His fingers tightened upon the dagger as another unclear figure entered the cottage, stepping straight through the wall. "He is correct," the newcomer confirmed with a nod. "There is a... a strange feel, once you step past a certain point. As if we are surrounded, enclosed - and yet you see that we are not."

Hardin peered at the new arrival. Not a knight, by the dress, but there was a small badge upon the young man's cloak. Slowly, he rose to have a closer look. He might have known - a VKP emblem. Scrying outside the cottage revealed another pair of armored knights, and a woman in plainclothes, likely another VKP investigator. Turning to look back, he could see the cottage, though they could not.

Inside, the man with the VKP badge gestured to those who remained outside the circle. "'Tis difficult to describe, this sensation. If you do not believe my words, then step forward and experience it for yourself."

Outside, the knights were shaking their heads emphatically. "This is cursed ground," one said, "perverted by those cultists, just as they perverted the city so many years past. I would not touch it."

"You cannot have forgotten what became of Guildenstern's men," said the other, "and the stories brought back. I want no part of the Dark."

"I believe you," said the woman simply, but neither did she step forward at the invitation. "I have seen it before. And I recommend that you spend little time within their circle - the old tales say that one can be lost if one remains too long between worlds."

"...Between worlds?" the investigator within repeated skeptically, but he did not linger much longer than the knight who had preceded him inside, and who preceded him out at once upon hearing the woman's words. The investigator glanced over his shoulder once he had passed from the circle, and the others faced the direction of the cottage as if they faced an enemy.

"They should not be able to enter in truth," Sydney whispered, aloud this time, and settled back, for there was nothing more for him to see now that they had gone. "In such a place as we are, we would have had no more substance to them than the walls."

"Then what are we to do?" the male investigator asked. "The bodies were recovered just over there, and the location was marked long ago. Surely this is the place..."

"Or it _was_ the place," the female investigator suggested. "As you can see... if anything remains of the building they once used here, it is beyond our reach."

"Only just barely," said the knight who had wandered inside the circle. His voice was tight and firm. "I could nearly see it..."

"Do not be a fool for the sake of your sister," another of the knights cautioned him. "She would not want you to be cursed, chasing after the devil's tricks."

"Holy vengeance," the knight insisted. "God protects those who go after such - it is the devil we seek to destroy."

"No," spoke the man with the VKP badge. "Those you seek to destroy are only men, though they may do the devil's work. Or perhaps they do not."

"How can you say such a thing?" hissed the knight. "They killed her only son!"

"Murder has been documented among all men," replied the investigator. "Even those who claim to be doing God's work."

All three of the knights stiffened, and seemed about to respond, when the female investigator spoke up. "As well, these deaths were not murder, but in their own defense. Committed while evading arrest, yes - but not unprovoked."

The exchange seemed curious to Hardin. "...The VKP seems... nearly sympathetic," he whispered.

"They are more neutral than the Blades," Sydney reasoned. "The Blades lost many of their soldiers in Leá Monde. The VKP had a Riskbreaker lost in action, and an agent who returned with some very interesting tales - many of them having to do with the church, and in particular the Cardinal and his knights."

Understanding suddenly, Hardin made a soft noise of assent. He nearly began to ask if the Duke still had a hand in Parliament, despite his health... then thought better of reminding Sydney.

Even thinking it was enough to pose a reminder, of course, when it came to Sydney. Sydney's mouth tightened. "Forgive me," Hardin murmured at once. "This revelation..."

Sydney nodded, his eyes upon the floor. "...We cannot stay here," he whispered, changing the subject. "It is no longer safe."

Hardin nodded in return, still scrying the knights and VKP agents outside as they stared in confundity at the place where a cottage should be, and failed to see it. "But are you fit for travel?"

"Fit enough."

Hardin had his doubts, but how long had it been since Sydney had said anything at all about his intention to die? And besides, traveling together, just the two of them, he would know at once if Sydney was pushing himself too hard. "Where are we to go, then? To our brethren?"

Sydney closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. "...John?"

Surprised by the intimacy of this address, Hardin let the Sight slip away to just look at Sydney. Whatever he was about to say, he wanted Hardin to listen well.

"I want to see my father."

Hardin paused, and discovered that he did not know where to begin, which of the complicated thoughts he could speak first. He said nothing, for Sydney knew them all already.

"You were at your father's bedside to say farewell when the time came, and your mother's," Sydney reminded him softly. "It has haunted you for years that it was not so with your brother. Would you be as the captors you've long cursed, John? Would you deny me this?"

It would have been much easier, Hardin thought, if Sydney had been angry, forceful. the choice would have been simple then - Hardin would provide resistance. But when there was nothing to resist but words of truth, what could he do? And of course, Sydney had to know that - that was why he was doing this. "I would not," he admitted. "But I know too that you had an... agreement."

"I did. And I am not ready to make a promise to you that I have changed my mind."

Which was exactly as Hardin expected, though he hadn't expected Sydney to say so outright. But then, he thought, Sydney was saying only that he was not _ready_ to make a promise... Suddenly he was uncertain, rather than frustrated, but he said it anyhow. "I will not take you to your death."

"I ask only that I may go to my father," Sydney told him again. "Beyond that is my decision. I know you do not trust me - if you did," he observed wryly, "we would not be having our current problem with the paling."

Outside, the knights and the agents had turned and left, recognizing that they could do nothing about the issue at the moment. Hardin did not doubt, though, that they or others would return, and would likely watch this spot until someone ventured out. They _did_ have to leave, and quickly. "How could we reach him anyhow? It is madness to think you would be allowed into his presence, after what they believe us to have done."

"I have a plan," Sydney stated. "But I know that I will not survive to reach him on my own. I would require your assistance."

He was not _asking_ for assistance, Hardin observed. He did not have to - his oath still held. But neither was Sydney _demanding_ it of him. ...Again, he did not have to, he thought cynically. They knew each other too well, and Sydney knew that Hardin's loyalties had always run deeper than his fears.

He could not say it aloud, but only breathed a heavy sigh, his head sinking into his hands in what may as well have been defeat. Of course Sydney knew his answer, and what surprised Hardin was the murmur that came after Sydney's own soft sigh of relief. "Thank you."

Not so surprising, though, that it put his mind at ease. "I've not been keeping myself fit as I should," Hardin muttered, pressing his palms against his eyes. "My own injury kept me from it for a time, and then I had fallen out of the habit... If we encounter the Blades on the road..."

"You will do what you can," came the response, and with it a rustle that told him Sydney had risen from his bed. "As you always have." Hardin was drawn from his fretful thoughts by the approaching muted footsteps, the unexpected weight of a metal arm sliding about his shoulders as Sydney settled beside him. "Thank you, John."

Hardin might have appreciated it more, and the softness of Sydney's head resting against his shoulder, if he hadn't had the feeling he'd just given his blessing to Sydney's suicide.


	6. Chapter 6

Sydney's favored sword, the one he called Czarine, had been lost somewhere in Leá Monde. He had worn it when Hardin last saw him in the cathedral, but at some point between the time when he cast the spell of teleportation and the moment when the Riskbreaker stumbled from the wine cellar with his burden, it had disappeared. Perhaps Guildenstern had stripped him of it before stripping him of his flesh, or perhaps it had been Guildenstern's woman. Perhaps Riot had deemed it unneccessary encumberment when Sydney was in no state to use it, and left it himself.

If Sydney was unable to use his magic, he must have some means of defense during their travels. When Hardin had disposed of the knights' bodies, he'd taken their weapons first, and among them was a shortsword that was perhaps close enough for Sydney to use. If he could use a sword at all; physical fighting had never been his area of expertise, and weeks upon weeks of bedrest and little sustenance had not helped the matter. In fact, during one of the numerous short rests they'd taken their first day out, Hardin had beheld Sydney's pallor, the shortness of his breath, and taken the scabbard from him, belting it to his own waist. Rather than protesting, Sydney only nodded. Hardin found that this was not the least bit comforting.

Though it was not a long journey into the Greylands from the forest west of Leá Monde, they could not take a direct route, for they knew the authorities would be watching the roads. Moreover, neither of them were as strong as they once had been. A day's journey would likely take three, but fortunately there were provisions enough already for them to avoid stopping for supplies on their way. They would do better to avoid villages and residences anyhow.

And to make Hardin's discomfort complete, they'd traveled only half a day before it began to rain - a cold rain, at that. He'd never cared much for rain to begin with, but the time he'd spent fleeing from the authorities in late winter, before he'd encountered Müllenkamp, had left him outright loathing it. Given that Sydney was beginning to look more and more unwell the further they travelled, and he had no desire to reach their destination anyhow, it was only one of several reasons he chose to stop and make camp south of a farming village before darkness had fallen.

Again, Sydney made no protest, but only huddled beneath his cloak, trembling slightly as Hardin tried to start a fire. What wood he could find was wet at worst, damp at best, and his frustration with the weather, his worries, and the whole situation were making him careless. He was nearly ready to give up in irritation when he heard a word spoken, and a spark flared up several spans from where he'd just tossed his flint down in disgust.

Sydney was smiling when Hardin turned to him, though weakly, and he pressed one steel palm against his head as if it pained him. "I have been feeling better," he murmured, before Hardin could confront him on the matter. "I wished to see if I could."

"And if you couldn't?" Then again, Hardin knew the answer Sydney would give, and it frustrated him further. "It matters not. You should have left it to me."

"Your preoccupation kept the idea from your head," Sydney replied. "And besides, what magic I have is expendable. You must conserve yours, for you will be the one to defend us if trouble comes."

As usual, he was correct. Hardin distracted himself from his annoyance by feeding twigs to the newborn fire, which burned hot enough to even devour the damp wood, and soon there was enough of a fire for him to cook them a hot meal.

Sydney ignored the stew Hardin made, merely picking at a bit of bread warmed by the fire as Hardin partook. Hardin noticed, of course. "The travel would not be so hard on you if you kept up your strength."

Sydney shook his head. "Even this makes me feel ill... I'm exhausted, Hardin," he admitted, and the hand holding the bread dropped to his side. "In my very soul... that which remains."

Hardin regarded him with a stubborn frown. "You should not have cast that spell."

"The spell had nothing to do with it - I've felt this way since before we even departed for the manor."

Recalling his distance during those last weeks - the nights Sydney hadn't come to bed, the days spent gazing into nothing - Hardin nodded grudgingly. His own appetite had vanished, understanding what Sydney meant. He continued to eat even so - he had to keep up his own strength, particularly if Sydney would not.

In silence they sat, as Hardin's heart waged war on the conclusion his mind was beginning to reach, until Sydney spoke again. "...I want to ask you a question, Hardin, and I want you to answer truly. No overreaction, no token displays of emotion. Only an honest answer."

The way in which he prefaced the question made Hardin's heart sink further. He'd wished for that same courtesy from Sydney for years, however, and so he nodded.

"Regardless of how it comes," Sydney began, "for instance, if the Blades came upon us tonight as we slept - what would you do, if I were to die and you to live?"

Only the fact that he'd expected a question just as troubling kept him from protesting. Even so, Hardin closed his eyes. An honest answer...? His thoughts lingered on several things he wanted to say, but he supposed that they were precisely what Sydney had meant about token displays of emotion or overreaction. This was a hypothetical situation, he reminded himself... and one with which he was well-acquainted. "...If it were the Blades... I do not know how I could live - how any man could live - with such anger. But neither would I die - not until I had taken down every single one of them, even to Batistum himself."

"And then?" Sydney prompted. "If you managed to avenge me, then what?"

"I know not. I don't believe I would care what became of me afterwards." Now he did set his bowl aside, for the thought made him feel ill as well. "...I dreamed this many a time, Sydney."

Sydney lowered his head. "As did I. I saw you die beneath Guildenstern's sword countless times."

The nights when Sydney had dreamed of apocalypse, of the heavens raining fire and a devil ripping apart the earth, had been numerous. But there had been other nights when Hardin had awoken to find Sydney crying, and Sydney refused to tell him what he had dreamed...

"And you would feel this rage for any who took my life, would you not?" Sydney continued, after a moment.

Hardin nodded slowly. He knew what Sydney meant, and... his heart burned at the thought. "I suppose, realistically... I would go to our brethren. I would help them however I could, and I would care for your brother. But I... I cannot imagine being among them, when..." He couldn't find the words, for his mind would not let him imagine what it would be like, being around their old comrades without Sydney. Watching his brother grow, possibly to resemble him...

"Then one more question," said Sydney. "What would you do if we should both live?"

Somehow, this question was worse - for a moment, Hardin felt a surge of hope, but it dissolved into helplessness when he realized he had no answer. "...I know not," he admitted, still fishing for an answer. "I would stay with you... help you. I would do what I could to make living worthwhile." But I know not what more I can do. "We could join our brethren," he said suddenly. "They would lend their support as well-"

"No." Sydney's voice was firm. "I cannot let them see me as I am. ...It is humiliating enough having _you_ see me as I am, and you have never considered me a god."

"Then we could both do as you suggested I should do - we could go somewhere far away, where no one has heard of Müllenkamp. We could live quietly together."

"And what would _I_ do," Sydney asked, "with a quiet life?"

Nothing at all came to mind. Hardin could find nothing to say, and the despair that fell over him at the realization made him feel as if he were drowning in his own blood once more.

After a moment, Sydney lifted his hands, regarding the bread and nibbling at it a bit once more. Hardin considered his stew, and put it aside, laying out his blankets instead.

Sydney had his own blankets, which was not as Hardin would have preferred it for many reasons. There was no more paling to protect them, and so before turning in, Hardin laid out their swords - his own to his left, Sydney's between their bedrolls. The dagger he tucked beneath the mat that served as his pillow.

He hoped that Sydney's question had only been hypothetical, because his answer had not been.

* * *

Regardless of the need to conserve his strength, Hardin found that he could not sleep out in the open without setting some of the wards and traps he was accustomed to using when he and Sydney traveled. Even afterwards, he found it difficult to sleep, and woke repeatedly with confusing images still lingering in his head. Once, the specter of an empty suit of the Crimson Blades' armor was hard to shake, the sound of it falling to the floor within the dungeon beneath Leá Monde and echoing off the walls until Hardin could hear nothing else... The sound lingered, even after he had woken more fully, and then he realized that the village they had camped near had a chapel; it was the first day of the week, and the bells were ringing in the distance.

Sydney was gone from his blankets. Uncertain whether to be concerned or hopeful, Hardin sought him out with the Sight, and found him sitting alone, as he always had upon such days. This time, however, there was none of the peace that characterized Sydney's time with the gods. Instead his eyes were red, his face wet, though the rain had stopped. After a moment's thought, Hardin pushed back his own blankets and rose to find him.

As he approached, Sydney gave no indication that he knew Hardin was there behind him, until he drew a deep breath. "Go back to sleep."

His voice was too low. Hardin frowned, but nodded and turned back towards their campsite. This time alone had always belonged to Sydney, more so if Sydney told him in so many words that he wished to be alone.

Though he lay down, Hardin could not force his eyes to close, but he would _not_ watch Sydney. He simply would not.

Dawn had broken some time past when Hardin gave up any further attempt at sleep and set about preparing for them to set out again once Sydney returned. There was bread and fruit for them to eat beforehand, and Hardin was burying the remains of their fire when he heard unsteady footsteps in the underbrush and looked up. "Is there nothing I can do...?"

Sydney shook his lowered head, but Hardin was already getting to his feet. It was with reluctance that he reached out, expecting to be pushed away, or perhaps a jolt of magic to strike him upon contact. Instead, Sydney leaned into him wearily, arms hanging limp at his sides, and Hardin tightened his own arms around Sydney, lest he fall. He was unsure whether Sydney was crying again, or trying to prevent himself from doing so, for his hair fell over his face and he said nothing for a very long time, only resting against Hardin.

His voice was steady, however, and nearly flat, when at last he spoke. "Since I was old enough to remember, I had always known I had a great purpose to fulfill someday. When I grew, I was given more of my future to know as the gods saw fit. Now that it is done, now that I no longer prophesy, I know nothing."

"...You know more than most. Even if you know not what may come tomorrow, you've accumulated much wisdom."

"I do not know how ordinary people can stand it," Sydney murmured, "living each day with no assurances, no idea whether they will live or die. I look to the future, and see nothing. I have no more destiny, no more promises..."

"...As long as you live," Hardin reminded him, though he knew Sydney needed no reminder, "you have mine."

Sydney paused, raised his head for a moment. "Men cannot make promises," he said, shaking his head sadly. "They have not the power to assure that what they say will come to pass."

"We have the power to try." Though hopelessness had worked its way in, Hardin couldn't help but rail desperately against it. "I have been in this place, Sydney. There was a time when my future was gone, when I knew nothing of what the next day would bring aside from more pain, and perhaps at last my death. But you found me, you... you pulled me from that mire and showed me solid ground to stand upon, you gave me a future unlike any I had ever dreamed." It was difficult, Hardin found, to articulate how strongly he felt these things; Sydney would know. "It was no paradise, true, and my past followed me all the while - but it was a future nonetheless, and I am better for it than if I had died in my misery. ...I would do the same for you," he said, his fingers clenching where they twined through Sydney's hair. "Though I am only a man... let me try. Let me try, Sydney."

Sydney moved not a muscle, but remained still as Hardin's fingers twisted in his hair, and eventually yielded, settling on his shoulders. Hardin's heart felt like a stone when Sydney finally pulled away, and knelt to roll his own blankets for further travel.


	7. Chapter 7

The second day, they hardly spoke. Hardin's thoughts turned over and over, trying to find something he could say, and discarding each word. He was angry, he was frightened, he was hurt.

And yet he tried to keep the two of them alive. Once he had lived for Sydney, and that time had been terrible enough. How much worse must it be for Sydney now, if he had given up?

"It is nothing you have done wrong," Sydney told him, breathlessly, when they paused to let him rest. "You have been more than I could have asked."

"Yet I cannot sway you from this course," Hardin muttered. "Though you swayed me from mine."

"I was the chosen of the gods - I shared their purpose. With that gone, what am I?" Sydney inquired. "What can fill such a deep emptiness? Do not believe yourself to be lacking, Hardin. Your devotion is enough to stay the hand of any ordinary man."

An ordinary man... such as he might find again, once Sydney was dead? Hardin bristled, turning away. "I have no interest in any _ordinary_ man."

"None? And yet that is what I have become, is it not? You've said it yourself in your anger."

"By the world's measure you have become ordinary," Hardin told him, blunt and honest. "It was never your power that made you extraordinary in my eyes - and extraordinary you remain."

But when he looked back to Sydney, what he saw was unhappy exhaustion, a layer of road's dust over pallid skin. With his limbs hidden within his clothes, Sydney looked very much like an ordinary man, except for the eyes - and they were Sydney's as they had always been. Tired at the corners now, nearly feverish and haunted, but still alight when they regarded him. He alone saw Sydney's eyes in this way, for Sydney let him in. Sydney allowed him to see what lay behind.

What lay behind was pain and guilt and weariness, so vast that Hardin momentarily wondered if he was wrong. Perhaps it was more cruel to keep him alive, when that had settled within.

...How could he think such things? Especially when he knew that Sydney would hear?

...He had begun to think it was inevitable. Sydney was, as he had said, an extraordinary man, and he remained so. Hardin had never been able to stand against him. Defy him, yes, when he did something disagreeable, but in the end he didn't have the heart to stop Sydney from doing whatever he pleased.

It was only that before, Hardin had always known that there was something else besides Sydney's personal vendetta driving him. A concern for mankind, a concern for _him_ more specifically. He trusted Sydney to do what was best because he knew that Sydney wanted to do what was best.

His thoughts were tangled, turning in upon themselves. The only comfort they afforded was that Sydney might not know his heart when he himself could not make sense of it.

Hardin could force himself to eat no more of the bread he'd unwrapped than Sydney before he gave in, wrapping it again in preparation to move. "...If you were healthy and whole," Hardin murmured, for it was only fair for him to turn Sydney's questioning back upon himself, "if you could go anywhere and do anything for another thirty years, what would you do?"

The question seemed to take Sydney somewhat by surprise, for he had to consider before answering. "...I cannot imagine living another thirty _days_ without the gods' direction, let alone thirty years. I have not had pursuits since my youth, aside from fulfilling their expectations of me."

"Perhaps you could find some." Hardin had never been privy to the details of Sydney's childhood, beyond a few anecdotes, a few brief glimpses into his life beyond the priesthood. "You were once a harper, if I recall. Now that your fingers no longer threaten the strings, you might play again."

"The years have been long," Sydney murmured. "And my hands much changed. If _I_ managed to recall how to play, it is like they might not."

"Or they might," Hardin reminded him. "You have not tried."

Sydney's hand rose, fingers flexed beneath his sleeves. "I do not wish to. I played, Hardin, as an escape, while waiting for the word of the gods to come. Next to their revelation, it is nothing worthy of comparison, let alone a substitute."

"You are not even trying," Hardin accused, and he was not referring to the harp.

"Neither are you," Sydney observed calmly. "The gods have chosen a day for us all - and long had I feared that yours would come before mine. The years I've spent with you were spent with the assumption that one day you would be gone, and preparing my heart for such an eventuality."

"The years _I've_ spent with _you_ ," Hardin shot back, "were spent with the same assumption - that there would never come a day that takes you from me."

"You _did_ fear that such a day would come," Sydney told him plainly. "I felt the relief in your heart, each time the breath returned to my body. Your heart feared, every time, that it might not. Still you did not prepare, as I did."

"Why the hell would I?"

"And yet you ask why I have no answer when it comes to the question of a life lived without the gods' will...?"

Hardin's hands clutched his head helplessly. That was exactly it. How was he supposed to live without Sydney any more than Sydney felt he could live without the gods' direction? Never had he spoken the sentiments of young lovers or poets, that what they had in each other was all that mattered; what they had _done_ in each other mattered just as much, likely more, in the grand scheme. He would not have said that Sydney was his sole reason for living. But...

Even now, he could not say in all honesty that Sydney's death meant his own, though it felt as if Sydney might as well be murdering him.

Hardin stood, taking his packs suddenly and simply walking away, quickly, taking no care to hide his path through the underbrush.

It was several minutes before he scryed the trail he'd left behind, and slowed, letting Sydney catch up. If they had so little time remaining together, then he could not afford to spend it separated in anger.

Yet he did not know what to say or do when Sydney did catch up, but remained lost in his own thoughts. Sydney did likewise.

When Hardin made up their blankets that night, it occurred to him that this might be the last time the two of them ever lay down together. But he was still too angry, too frustrated, and he made no move at all after placing the swords on either side of him, the dagger beneath his pillow.

* * *

Hardin woke when the sheets were suddenly absent from his body, a shifting of fabric all that was necessary to snap him awake. Someone was standing above him, someone was closing on him. He had one hand reaching for the dagger beneath his pillow before he managed to realize that it was Sydney, and that the armored hand pinning that wrist beside his shoulder did not have to be thrown off.

It was disorienting, to say the least; Sydney had not seemed to have any interest in sharing beds since Leá Monde, and Hardin wondered for a moment, had he dreamed a dream? But if it were so, Sydney would not have continued to hold his wrist to the mattress once Hardin had realized who was atop him. Nor would he have undressed before sliding beneath the sheets... This was normal behavior for Sydney in years previous, except that the hand holding Hardin's wrist was no danger to him, and neither was the other when it slid beneath the small of his back, aside from his shiver at the chill of the metal.

Already Hardin's heart was pounding as if it _had_ been an enemy, his pulse quickening with anticipation despite his confusion. "Sy-" he began, but then Sydney had a knee between his thighs, and Hardin could not speak when another tongue was pressing against his, nor could he recall what he'd been attempting to say. He simply reached up with the hand that was not pinned, and nearly placed it upon Sydney's back before he remembered, and placed it on his hip instead. Perhaps Sydney did not appreciate being treated so delicately, for Hardin felt teeth then as well as tongue, and tasted blood. So long denied, it was no surprise that he shuddered, that he spread his legs a little wider instinctively. Sydney was ready to take advantage of that, slipping the other knee between as well, lowering himself...

The pants Hardin had worn to bed were thin, but even that was frustrating, for he could feel Sydney's heat and movement all too easily. Soon, his hips were rising in response, his blood craving the rush that came each time they pressed up against Sydney's, and then his wrist was released, for Sydney was tugging down his pants. Though the fingers no longer shredded the fabric in their impatience, they yanked with great urgency, almost a sense of arrogance. Hardin cared not at all that he might wind up bruised or chafed the next day - Sydney was acting like himself, and that was as much a thrill as anything Sydney was doing physically.

It occurred to Hardin, as Sydney wrenched the pants past his ankles at last and tossed them somewhere, that depending on what Sydney's intentions were, he might have to call a stop to it. They'd not done this for some time, of course, and that meant that penetration would likely hurt, if not properly prepared. Hardin had not packed for an extended stay alone with Sydney by any means. But almost before he'd finished thinking it, there was a breathless laugh, and Sydney was pressing something into his hand. A small bottle - and Hardin was confused as to why Sydney would have brought it along with them until he spread a dab upon his fingers and realized - it was cooking oil. He closed his eyes, only managing not to laugh because he could not breathe. How long had Sydney been awake, readying for this, while he slept? Then Hardin could not laugh because Sydney's mouth covered his, and he was trying not to spill the oil on the sheets as he slicked his palm. He would not have minded taking it slow, after so long, but Sydney was obviously not so inclined.

Hardin's eyes remained closed, watching with the Sight at the way Sydney's body twitched as his hand wrapped around, caressing. The feel of Sydney sliding through his fingers, the sight of him bucking forward - Hardin forgot that he was essentially lying on top of a gauntlet and let his hips roll back, giving Sydney access. The initial discomfort was sharp, even with the oil, but faded quickly with the feel and the vision of Sydney thrusting into him, fast and harsh as his breathing. Craving more, Hardin reached one hand down between them...

Again, his wrist was caught and pinned beside his shoulder, and this time his eyes opened in surprise. They widened further when, instead of his own hand, he felt himself being stroked by a stiffer hand, not cold as it had been when it had first slid beneath him, but warmed comfortably by his own body's heat.

Being touched so by Sydney's hands was just as Hardin had always thought it would have been, were it possible - there was no tenderness, he was not gentle. His fingers were ruthless, jerking roughly and almost too quick, and they yielded nothing as Hardin rose against them, tight and solid. It was different, but it was _Sydney_. And then, Sydney was pulling Hardin's wrist from the mattress with the other hand, drawing it to his mouth, taking in a finger to lick and suck and - oh yes - worry between his teeth. Hardin let out a great moan. There had always been this contrast with Sydney, both pain and pleasure, but never quite this variety of either.

Sydney had to let go of his wrist to balance himself as he thrust deeper, rising and falling with the motion of Hardin's hips. Though in darkness, the Sight let Hardin see his head tilt back, his mouth open in a gasp as he let his body do as it wished, and Hardin's hand slipped away. Not to worry; he was already fully aroused, and though release did not come so easily with only ordinary stimulation, it would come, in time. Sydney's would come much faster, however, judging from the look upon his face. His body weakened, already the pleasure had nearly overcome him, and the sight of him like this, back arched and head tossing, was as glorious to Hardin as any of the gods' gifts.

Hardin worried, afterwards, that Sydney might collapse. His strength had already been worn away by the travel, he had little energy for this manner of exertion (though he would not argue, he could _never_ argue), and he had been so ill... Shakily, Sydney let himself rest for a moment between Hardin's legs, still inside, leaning on his hands for a few seconds before reaching up and swiping his disheveled hair back from his eyes. Behind it, those eyes were resolute, but upon what purpose...

When Sydney's other hand rose again, Hardin froze at what it held, and for a moment wondered if the gift of prophetic dreams had passed to him.

The blade he kept beneath his pillow, half-drawn before Sydney had pinned his wrist, was sharp. It severed his skin easily as Sydney lowered it to his chest, slicing down across his abdomen, barely missing the fresh scar Guildenstern had left. Sydney smiled knowingly as Hardin writhed beneath him, and pressed the knife deeper into his flesh with one hand, stroking between Hardin's legs with the other. It was not the same as the touch of Sydney's hands had once been, multiple swordpoints burning across his body, but it was still Sydney, terrifying and fascinating as he _used_ Hardin, an outlet for the frustrations he never voiced. Entirely new frustrations this time, and Hardin was aware that he was the cause of some, but that only meant that Sydney would gain more satisfaction from using him in such a way. Though Sydney had intentionally started their quarrel at the cabin, nothing he said had been a lie; it was true, Hardin thought, that he himself had never wanted anything more than to be used.

Stripes of red welled up upon his ribs, his chest and shoulders, and he choked on the pain, a sting which had been so long absent, and at the shout that threatened to burst forth. No more than a growl and a low groan escaped his clenched teeth as he struggled to remain quiet and reasonably still beneath the blade - Sydney would not have the control he did when he was using his own fingers - but his hips still tried to rise, to thrust into the strange, unyielding firmness of Sydney's new hand. Unfamiliar though it might be, it was enough, and Hardin's body trembled with his climax.

He was weaker than he had been as well; he lay there on his back, catching his breath as Sydney sat over him, and Sydney was still catching his breath even now. It was more vigorous activity than anything he had done for weeks, Hardin noted, and after a day's travel. Yet aside from the breathlessness, Sydney did not seem uncomfortable, and it was he who spoke first. "Frustration did not prompt this," he murmured, brushing his hair back from his face once more. "It pleases me to give you pleasure. ...There is," he added, his voice turning somewhat bitter, "very little I can offer any longer, save this, and to you."

It was more than enough. Rather than saying so in words, Hardin reached up to draw him down, turning them to lay Sydney back and kiss him as if they were both not already spent, hard and thorough. When Sydney drew back to breathe, Hardin simply kissed chin, shoulder, hand - whatever he could reach, an act of worship.

And when Sydney finally placed a hand on his chest, halting him with a murmur of his name, they fell together where they lay in a tangle of limbs both natural and artificial, beneath the blankets Hardin drew up over their cooling bodies. Hardin lay still, listening to Sydney breathe and praying to the gods that this was progress rather than a parting gift.

He suspected that Sydney was still awake, also listening, but as Sydney was no god, he did not answer.


	8. Chapter 8

To wake with Sydney in his arms was no longer ordinary, but a frustrating luxury. Hardin's desire, woken the night before, was roused again easily by the sensations of bare skin against metal and more bare skin. Sydney was still asleep, and Hardin would not wake him - he had little enough energy to spare, and he had expended much last night.

And there was still further to travel, whether they continued on their intended course or went elsewhere. As Sydney still slept, Hardin let himself consider elsewhere, where they might go if Sydney would but say the word. Anywhere but to the duke.

He was half-dozing again when Sydney moved, his hand on Hardin's side slipping down to his hip. Grey eyes tilted up to look as Hardin opened his own, and he thought he saw something like a smirk within them when Sydney moved again, ducking his head once more to press his lips against Hardin's chest. His tongue darted out, and Hardin realized abruptly that his wounds from the last night had not been healed, as had been the case previously. Sydney's tongue found dried blood, a red line still tender, and Hardin shivered. But that was not Sydney's intention, he quickly determined; Sydney's mouth continued downward, lips and tongue working over the torn skin, until his head had disappeared beneath the blankets, his hands gripping Hardin's thighs as Hardin rolled onto his back, knowing now what Sydney's plan was.

Sydney was maddeningly slow, teasing him with the lightest touches of his tongue at first, when Hardin already needed no preliminaries. It was a conscious choice, of course, to be so infuriating, and Hardin let him go at his own pace, no urging. He simply pushed the blankets back so he could see Sydney's face as he teased and toyed. Sydney was rarely so patient, nor was he gentle, and though Sydney's normal ways pleased Hardin, this was something to savor.

After he'd slowly built up Hardin's need, bringing Hardin almost to the point of begging, then following through, Sydney settled down at his side while Hardin caught his breath again. Hardin wanted to ask, because there seemed to be an obvious answer - before, Sydney had been in such a rush - but he did not dare, lest he be proven wrong. Better to say nothing, expect no change, and perhaps find that the gods had answered his prayers.

Their silence was not yet broken when Hardin decided that comfortable as their dalliance was, _he_ at the least required food. He offered bread, wordlessly, and Sydney accepted, though taking only a few bites. His eyes were kept down - _in_ , rather, Hardin thought - though his boldness the night before, and upon waking, had encouraged Hardin's own. Hardin was pleased, Hardin was grateful, and though Sydney could surely hear it within his heart, there was no reason not to show these things upon his face. It was the two of them, alone in the thick of the forest - and despite the hardships that had so oft driven them there, it held a certain nostalgia for Hardin. For a little while, if he did not think upon it too deeply, it could seem as if everything was as it had been, years past.

Sydney finally dispelled the illusion when Hardin stood to go to the packs again, feeling the sting of last night's wounds tugging at his skin as a bittersweet reminder. Sydney stood as well, stepping around the remains of the campfire to join him. "Your own ability should be sufficient for healing," he remarked, placing his fingertips against Hardin's now-clothed chest.

Blunt they may now be, Hardin thought, but never harmless, for it was still Sydney that possessed them. "I have no need," he assured Sydney, raising a hand to rest it upon Sydney's wrist, just below where the metal was riveted together. "Even fresh, these trouble me less than the wound dealt by Guildenstern."

"Perhaps not," Sydney agreed, quietly. "We need not make haste; t'would be wisest to enter the city once the night has fallen, and we are not so far from its walls."

Hardin closed his eyes, knowing he should not have permitted himself to hope. Sydney did not correct his unspoken assumption, which was as much confirmation as was necessary. His fingers caressed the metal; he was too weary to be angry any longer. His body was rested, but his very soul could not be made to move further.

Sydney's fingertips slid upwards, until the chill metal met Hardin's skin, lingering at his shoulder. "...We may yet tarry here a bit longer."

Hardin nodded, and... though the blankets were still strewn about the ground, he merely sat, drawing Sydney down with him. The nearest could be wrapped around them, binding them together as if his arms did not. Lovemaking would have been bitter, as would conversation; he chose not to think, but only to remember.

Sydney's head rested against his shoulder, familiar and warm, while his left arm wound around Hardin's waist, cold and slightly distracting. The feel of these limbs differed from the last, and Hardin could scarcely recall that once he had feared them, been repulsed by the realization that there was no flesh within the metal trappings. So long had he been in Sydney's bed, he had grown fond of them in a strange sort of way; it was merely one of the many things about Sydney that were unique, the way his arms and legs were cool to the touch - and yet could be warmed by the heat of his own body, as the arm around his waist was warming now.

He remembered meeting Sydney, the man's unnerving abilities offset by his magnetism. Never for a moment had Hardin truly believed that his band of devoted followers were merely a harmless religious sect, simply because it was Sydney who led them, and even at his most gentle, Sydney was dangerous. He'd shown it over and over throughout the years, less with the blades of his hand or the power of his magic than with the biting sarcasm, the sharp intelligence. And he was no god - often his gifts were misdirected, and Hardin considered it a gift of his own that he was permitted to see what their brethren did not.

Years of memories there were, turning points and epiphanies and moments of dark tension; moments of unexpected levity, tenderness and teasing and exhilaration. It was no discourse between them, Sydney offered no response to the dreams Hardin let himself dream, there was no answering whisper to question or elaborate, but he must have been listening, for he could not help but hear. So many times Sydney had refused to listen... Hardin did not allow himself to consider why he would now, and simply let his thoughts go where they would, a meditation on a man who had changed his world.

His dreams became more akin to dreams as the two of them sat wrapped in their blankets, warm and comfortable and half-dozing, until the sun was overhead, just beginning to make its descent towards the west. Sydney shifted, just enough to get Hardin's attention. "It is time," he murmured.

Taking a deep breath, Hardin put the dreams aside. His heart felt like a stone as he nodded and unwound the blankets from about them, releasing Sydney.

* * *

It was indeed not far; even moving at a moderate pace, they were within sight of the walls of the city before the sun had sunk below the horizon. No discussion was necessary between them. They simply waited at the forest's edge until the last glimpse of red had vanished, and then began to cross the plains that surrounded the city. Of course there were guards at the gates, but Sydney pulled back his hood, allowing the men to examine his face, and so Hardin did likewise. A brief word implying they would be traveling further in the morn, a grudging nod, and they were allowed in. Hardin could only assume that Sydney had worked a milder glamour than the usual, and only for a moment, because when Sydney turned to gesture him onwards, he looked to be only himself.

Both of them knew the city well enough to avoid the most prominent streets, where the lights and the guards were plentiful, and the particular back alleys that housed gathering places for those seeking a bounty. And of course they both knew the way to the secondary Bardorba residence, the manse in which he stayed when in the city. Hardin had accompanied Sydney there in the past; he found it difficult to remember at times that Sydney may have known the way since he was a boy. He might once have called it home - Hardin had not thought to ask.

He never would. It was too late now, looking up at the wall of the manse from the side street that ran alongside. Sydney's eyes went to a particular window, Hardin saw, where the light was dimmed compared to the others. The gaze lingered, then Sydney sighed as he turned away, a sound of relief or resignation. Instead, his gaze fell upon Hardin, who couldn't help but think that he looked very, very tired.

"We should move quickly, lest we be found out," Sydney told him. "Weary though I am, rest will come soon enough."

"Sydney..." Hardin began, but he did not need to say more. You don't have to do this.

"Once you have escorted me inside," Sydney instructed him, "you must leave in great haste. The glamour will not last for long."

Because the one who cast it could maintain it no longer. Hardin wanted to argue, but he clenched his jaws together tightly. Sydney could not maintain it for long even if he did live, he reminded himself, and to Sydney this weakness was worse than death. What right did he have?

Sydney was waiting for his response, for their time was limited. "Are you ready?"

Hardin did not speak - he only gazed at the face before him, hollow and haunted. Though Sydney still lived, this was the last chance he would ever have to look upon it.

Sydney's head lowered slightly. "...Don't, John," he murmured. "This is not the face I would have you recall, when you think of me."

He would remember each of Sydney's faces, he was sure. In strength and in power and in anger, lacking all these things, fearful and too young. Rather than looking, he leaned in, cupping Sydney's cheek in his palm as he leaned them against the rough bricks of the wall and kissed him deeply. Sydney returned the kiss with the intensity he had shown so seldom since Leá Monde; _that_ was what Hardin wanted to remember.

It couldn't last for long, however, and he looked Sydney in the eyes, deadly serious, when they parted. He'd hardly ever been allowed to say what he wished in all the years they'd known each other, and he would not be intimidated into not saying it now. "I love you."

To his surprise, Sydney didn't frown or narrow his eyes - he looked up, every bit as serious, and raised a hand to Hardin's cheek as well. "...I love you too," he said quietly. "Thank you."

Before Hardin could say anything in response, Sydney's face had vanished, and slightly above where it had been was the face of a taller man - Ashley Riot. As for Hardin, he was abruptly a few inches shorter than he had been, of a height with Sydney's new appearance, and he saw upon his arms the metal bracers and red cloth of another former Riskbreaker. Seeing his grimace, Ashley's lips turned up slightly. "Our old friend Rosencrantz," he explained, "is another they will not find, no matter how they search." Hardin could almost be pleased, for the pointed sarcasm in Ashley's voice made Sydney sound unmistakably like the Sydney that Hardin loved.

But, as he loved Sydney, he could not be pleased when he knew what was about to come. Together they entered the manse, greeted with relief by those who knew of Rosencrantz's comings and goings in the past, and by the VKP guards stationed there who knew of Riot's assignment. In keeping with the man's mannerisms, Sydney said little aside from a statement that he had important news for Duke Bardorba, and must deliver it at once.

Through the archway, Hardin could see the elderly duke stirring in his bed, weakly sitting up with the assistance of his servants, who he bade leave. Sydney, too, turned to Hardin. "This is where our paths must diverge. Godspeed to you."

This was the end. There was nothing Hardin could think of to say, and he knew he could not linger. He merely nodded and turned to leave.

His steps quickened as he heard the duke greeting 'Ashley', before he'd gotten far enough away not to hear, before he was in the stairwell. His pace became quicker when he reached the foot of the stairs, and made for the manor's entrance. It was not only Sydney's warning about the glamour that made him hurry - he could have stayed, he could have watched. He did not want to.

He was vaguely aware of a guard asking where he went with such haste, but he only shook his head. Before he'd realized, he was in the outskirts of the city, the poorer districts, and he hurried on, seeking a gate. He was suffocating - his own heart seemed to be choking him - he needed to get out from within stone walls. There was a guard stationed, unfortunately, but years of living in a place where streets had collapsed or been buried beneath rubble had left Hardin able to carve his own path. The plains, stretching out before him where he dropped to the ground after going over the wall, were a relief. Just not relief enough. He continued on, setting out aimlessly into the darkness, simply because he could not think what else to do.

What else could he do? Without Sydney... He was a fugitive again, as he had been five years ago. This time, there would be no strange cloaked man and his followers stumbling across their mutual hiding place. Hardin found that he had been right - he _did_ hate anyone who would take Sydney's life.

He was not sure when it had become light, or when plains gave way to forests, or when he'd become so dizzy. It took until after he'd finally lowered himself unsteadily to the ground that it occurred to him he'd been walking all night and much of the day, and that his body was demanding rest.

He cared little about its demands, but the feeling was apparently mutual. Hardin considered setting wards just out of habit, but quickly realized that his mental state would not allow it, had he even been inclined to try. With swords still belted to his waist, less as a protective measure than because he simply couldn't stay awake long enough to remove them, Hardin fell asleep where he lay.

Somehow, he woke again anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

Hardin only determined which direction he was walking when the sun went down again; he was going north. The brethren were not there, and there was nothing left for him in his homelands, save a few who might recognize him and sell him out to the king's men - but no matter which direction he might travel, he would not find Sydney. It mattered little to him where he might find himself.

With the sky dark, he continued to walk even as he considered stopping. He was tired, but was sure he would not sleep; if he did find sleep, he might dream. He was uncertain as to which would be worse.

In the darkness and the silence of the forest, his stomach had the audacity to growl. He considered ignoring the fact that he hadn't eaten for... he wasn't sure how long. He'd barely drunk either, and reminding himself forcibly that he _was_ more than Sydney - the bastard, he'd left - gave him the will to stop, open his pack. He ate the bread that Sydney had not eaten, and did not taste it.

He would live, he thought to himself, scraping together a bit of wood for a small fire. If he would not live, he might do well to fall on his sword tonight, rather than prolong the matter. But he would live.

He was not yet ready to make plans beyond that, however, and he sat staring into the fire, huddled at its side, until his eyes opened to daylight, and he shivered at the cold, the black embers of the fire that had gone out while he was unconscious. Perhaps he would not be forced to choose, he realized when he attempted to stand; he was weak, and his body ached. Despite the chill that made him shudder, there was sweat at his brow, and Hardin realized then that his resolution of self-preservation had come too late. He'd pushed himself too far already.

A fitting end, he considered, should it come to that. Illness had destroyed his life many years ago, taking his family and his choices, leaving only desperation and solitude, and Sydney had helped him to rebuild what was left. With Sydney gone, he was back where he had been when they met, and why should the very thing that destroyed his life not finish him off at last?

But illness had taken too much from him already. He did not intend to permit it to take his life, should he have a say in the matter. There was little water left in the skins he carried, and he choked down the mouthfuls that remained before returning to his blankets. When he woke, if he woke, he would seek out more regardless of his condition.

...His head was upon someone's knee, and a hand stroked over his cheek, smoothing back his hair.

The hand made it immediately obvious that his first thought was mistaken, for it was soft and warm, made of flesh. The knee was likewise soft and yielding, and Hardin blinked up to see the firelight glinting off long dark hair. ...If his mother was there, he realized, then he must have joined her in death.

But then, too, there were flames. If the followers of St. Iocus were indeed in the right, he surely deserved their fiery hell - but his mother most certainly did not.

Not his mother, then... Merlose? One of the sisters? Riot might have been instructed to find him, brought him to this place to recover. He could not make out his surroundings; his vision was blurry, and though the darkness was not complete, he could see the orange flicker of firelight reflected upon his clothing and the woman's hair. Oddly, he saw no flames, though he turned his head to look.

You need not think upon what to do. You should simply stay where you are, and rest.

The woman's voice. He did not think it was Callo's, and he knew he had the information he needed to determine the truth, but the fever left his mind unclear.

Would you make all my efforts for naught?

A sudden tap of her fingertips upon his temple made him jump, and he was back in the woods, his head resting only on his own arm. It was still light, the makeshift firepit was still black and cold, and the grass beyond his blanket was moving. It took a moment for him to realize why.

Hardin pushed himself up, reaching out for his pack to remove cups and bowls. He found the spots where water was dripping from the trees overhead, and placed the receptacles carefully as the rain began to fall harder. Intercession, he thought to himself, waiting beneath his blankets until he'd gathered enough to drink deeply, though it burned his throat. He knew now who the woman had been.

It was no surprise when he blinked and found himself upon her lap again, her hand heated even to his unnaturally warm face. "Thank you," he murmured. "And thanks be to Talia and Marduk for their gift."

Are you indeed grateful?

...He had no answer he could give.

You shall be, she told him. Trust us.

Perhaps, then, he had a purpose left in the world. Some other task he must accomplish for the gods... He did not need to know now, however, while he was weakened and still bitter at what they had taken from him.

She was humming a song under her breath, one vaguely familiar; it was some time before he remembered, Sydney had sung it once in his hearing. It had been a moment of peace for him within his father's walls, a place which so often left him tense and unhappy. Yet Hardin was not certain the memory pleased him now. It was a reminder of what he'd lost-

And a reminder that still you live.

Her hand was still hot against his skin as she wiped the sweat from his brow - and then she was gone, and he was awake.

The rain was still falling, but had diminished to a light drizzle. With no concept of how much time had passed, nor which direction was which, Hardin was unsure if it was dawn or dusk, but it was unmistakable that he was thirsty. The cups and bowls he'd set out were overflowing; he drained one of the cups, and set about refilling the skins from the rest.

He did not notice until he was nearly finished that the water had not burned his throat, nor did his body ache. Although he was still chilled, it was not to an unusual degree, given the weather.

The fever had gone as suddenly as it had come, but still wary, Hardin set about building another fire. It would warm him, and he thought that he might eat something beyond the bread, which by this time was certainly stale.

Having cared nothing for his safety, it came as a surprise when he heard twigs snapping in the distance, at the pace of a man. He'd set no wards, he'd not scryed - he had set a fire to be seen by anyone close enough. Even as he derided himself for his foolishness, he called upon the Sight, looking to see who approached.

No knight, as he had feared - only a single person, cloaked and hooded against the weather. There was no swing of a sword beneath the cloak, and the shoulders sagged as if exhausted. Another traveler, perhaps, off the beaten path for some reason and hoping to find his way back to the road before his strength gave out.

Although Hardin had no patience for company at the moment, he was aware that the gods had seen fit to spare his life for some purpose. If this traveler had nothing to do with it, then even so - once upon a time he had been lost, weary, and half-starved, and by the gods' grace, he had been given a bowl and a place by a fire.

Though the memory was still bitter, it prompted him to gesture to the figure who stepped out from among the trees. "You're a mite far from the roads traveled by decent folk," he observed. "You're welcome to a place by my fire - it will warm me no less with another beside."

The figure hesitated, then nodded slightly as it stepped forward, reaching up to the hood it wore. "From your invitation, I daresay that decent folk do not always travel the roads."

From the first word, Hardin's breath had caught, but when the hands pulled back the hood, he was no less astonished. Though clearly tired and uncomfortable, the corner of Sydney's mouth turned up in an amused smirk. "But then, neither of us has the right to claim decency, do we?"

Hardin was sure that there was something - several somethings - to be said, but he could not think of which to say first. It was no help that Sydney would hear them even unspoken, for his thoughts themselves seemed to fall victim to the same.

Sydney responded nonetheless. "I apologize."

"I..." Hardin wasn't even sure what Sydney was apologizing for, though he hoped he knew. And if he knew, it was unnecessary.

"...You did come to hate me, did you not?" Sydney observed, coming to sit at the fire beside him. "I was not convinced that you would, though it was a possibility."

Hardin was going to protest, but he could not lie to Sydney. His heart had already replied. But if Sydney had felt his bitterness, he must feel it falling away now as he comprehended; Sydney was here. Sydney had not left him, giving up on a more ordinary life...

"I could have endured the thought of you hating me for the sake of the gods - this is why I could lie to you about the duke, about the key we sought," Sydney told him, his eyes down again, on his hands clasped in his lap. "But... I am not a god, as you have told me so many times. The thought of you hating me for my own sake, for no greater purpose... I considered it, while visiting my father, and found it distressed me more than I would have expected."

"Was that all?" Surely Sydney would not have turned back for such an inconsequential reason as his feelings, Hardin was certain.

"Not 'all'," Sydney admitted, offering him a small smile. "But primarily."

Hardin still didn't know what to say. And now that Sydney was there, close to the fire's light, close to Hardin, his pain and exhaustion was more obvious. "...My father understood why I would break our pact; he bid me go."

"So the duke...?" Hardin inquired.

"Has surely gone to the gods by his own hand by now," Sydney confirmed, "knowing that his youngest was safe, and his eldest set out on a new path. And no easy task, that," he added, a sardonic edge to his voice. "The glamour had drained my strength, I was weak and ill. I was fortunate in that the guard whom I encountered in the street, after my father and I said our farewells, thought me to be no more than a beggar."

Hardin nearly smiled. "Never have I met a beggar who looked like you," he murmured.

"I would suggest that you are biased." But Sydney smiled slightly as well, offering his hand. Hardin took it gladly, lacing his fingers through Sydney's, colder and harder. "Upon leaving the city, the gods saw fit to inform me of where you had gone - perhaps a last gift, after years of hard service. Yet you had moved too far, too quickly, and in my current state, I knew I could not keep up. The Lady, however, encouraged me onwards."

The Lady... Hardin didn't merely suspect - he already _knew_. "And she encouraged me to slow," he muttered. "Forcibly."

"She does care for her own," Sydney agreed. "Though when uncooperative, we may find her methods unpleasant."

It was so simple to be sitting there with Sydney, hand in hand, talking quietly as if they had never been separated. Simple, yet precious, and Hardin could not look away. Still astonished, he feared Sydney might vanish, or he might wake. But still Sydney was there, and he remained, looking back.

"...I am not much to live for," Hardin admitted at last. "I shall try to be worthy."

"You are," Sydney said simply. "Never have unworthy men swayed me from my course. What of yours?" he inquired. "What did you intend?"

"To live," Hardin replied. "Nothing more."

"I should not stand in your way," remarked Sydney, "as my plans are much the same."

The possibilities were unending, to Hardin's mind. But which to choose, which would best please both of them, with their differing talents...? Considering such things was nearly frightening.

"In the short term," he said finally, "I was preparing dinner when you arrived. The bread is stale, but if the soup should be acceptable..."

"I believe it will." Sydney remained still as Hardin withdrew his hand, standing to retrieve two of the bowls he had emptied into the skins. "As little appetite as I had when last we took a meal together, I have not taken time for food in the past few days."

"You're hungry, then?" Hardin asked.

Sydney nodded, almost imperceptibly. "...I am."

He still could not manage a full bowl, but he did eat, and without complaint. There was little room for discussion afterwards; Sydney was exhausted from his travel and overexertion, and Hardin was still weary from his brief illness. He had only blankets laid out for one, of course, but neither of them believed it to present a problem.

Plans, they agreed wordlessly, huddled into each other's arms beneath the blankets, could wait for the morrow, or even the day after.

* * *

Leá Monde's fate was not the normal way of great cities; some distance to the east was another great city who had been destroyed. As empires rose and fell, and kingdoms and countries redrew their boundaries upon the maps of Ivalice, more than once she had been rebuilt, drawing back the curious and those cast out from other, less steadfast homelands.

The streetears were a centuries-old tradition, and for the right price, they would tell anyone (and for a wonder, they all agreed) that the two strangers were from Valendia, judging from the lilt of their speech. They called each other by different names when alone - almost certainly they were fugitives from the law. But there was no love for Valendia within these city walls, and the streetears considered themselves to have gotten the better bargain.

What was known openly was more than enough to prove their worth. The taller of the two had enlisted in the guard upon arrival, hoping for enough coin to buy food for himself and his companion. Within days, he'd proven more than competent for the guard, and those who saw him fight off a horde of robbers nearly singlehandedly suggested he try his luck with the guild. He made himself a name among the hunters effortlessly. It was not he alone who hunted, however. If asked, the smaller man would say he was but a scholar, and the time he spent in the ancient library, turning the pages of the oldest tomes with gloved hands, supported his claim. Even so, he accompanied his companion into the jungle or the desert each time, frail in appearance and heavily cloaked.

Though now a secular society, once the city had had ties to the Kiltias, a subject about which the smaller stranger knew a great deal. It was suggested that he might teach at the university, but he merely shook his head and smiled, saying that it was his time to be instructed, not to instruct. Likewise, the judges had some interest in his companion, who declined. He'd had his fill of authority, whatever that was to mean, and the two seemed content to live a modest life.

It was not the streetears who whispered of witchcraft, of course - they had a reputation of truth to uphold - but the children who talked among themselves, daring each other to approach the home the two were soon able to purchase with the bounties they collected. They returned to tell their friends of odd rituals on festival nights, hands like armored gauntlets, and conversations with a strange man whom no one ever saw coming or going. Some claimed to have seen the two drawing water at midnight, washing blood from clothes and skin, though there was no wound upon either, and such claims inspired stories of ritual sacrifice. Their mothers rebuked them, saying they could do with less of these faerie tales, even as they themselves gossiped about exactly how close the two men might be.

Rumors, however, were merely rumors. As years passed, the unusual strangers were strangers no more, but simply two of the many travelers who had chosen the city as their home. Children, mothers, and hunters agreed; there was little more to be said of them than was already known.

**Author's Note:**

> They both live. Not quite happily ever after, perhaps, but in relative comfort. ;)


End file.
